CANADIAN 
POFJS  AND  POETRY 


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CANADIAN    POETS 


CANADIAN  POETS 
AND  POETRY 


Chosen      and     Edited      by 

JOHN     W.    GARVIN,    B.  A., 

Editor  of  '  The  Collected  Poems  of  Isabella   Valancy  CravifoTa 


NEW    YORK 

FREDERICK    A.    STOKES    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright  Canada,  1916 

McClelland,  goodchild  &  stewart,  limited 

Toronto 


PRINTED  IN  CANADA 


A 


Editor's  Foreword 

LMOST  simultaneously  with  the  Great  War,  has  come  a 
renaissance  of  Poetry,  which  is  significant  of  that  law  of 
balance  by  which  the  heart  turns  instinctively  from  the  terror 
and  confusion  of  devastating  human  emotion,  to  the  purity 
of  a  clearer  and  serener  air. 

Poetry,  at  its  height,  implies  beauty  and  the  driving  force 
of  passion.  It  implies  also  the  austerity  and  emotional 
>»  restraint  which  means  spiritual  strength,  and  it  is,  primarily, 
<  to  the  inherent  strength  of  this  Art  which  faces  and  pictures 
CQ  the  truth  in  nature  and  human  nature,  that  the  people  have 
kJ      turned  in  times  past  and  will  turn  in  times  to  come. 

This  volume  contains  brief  but  inclusive  records  of  fifty 
men  and  women  to  whom  song  has  come  first.     Many  of  their 
poems  are  indigenous  to  the   soil, — vitally,   healthfully   Can- 
adian ;  others  are  tinged  with  the  legendary  and  mythical  lore 
§     of  older  lands ;  but  all  are  of  Canada,  inasmuch  as  the  writers 
Z,     have  lived  in  this  country,  and  have  been  influenced  by  its 
■)     history  and  atmosphere  at  a  formative  period  of  their  lives. 
-     Among  them,  one  ventures  to  think,  there  are  world  voices. 
■  ^         A  recent  reading  of  the  published  verse  of  Bliss  Carman, 
has  convinced  me  that  he  must  soon  be  more  widely  recog- 
nized as  a  poet  of  preeminent  genius.     He  is  greater  than 
some  of  more  extended  fame  for  the  reason  that  his  poetry 
expresses    a    nobler    and    more    comprehensive    philosophy 
of  life  and  being.     Bliss  Carman  has  achieved  more  greatly 
than    many     others    of    this     generation,     because    he    has 
!p      realized    more    fully    than    they    that    the    Infinite    Poet    is 
^      constantly  and   eternally   seeking  media   for  expression,   and 
■"^      that  the  function  of  a  finite  poet  is  to  steadily  improve  the 
instrument,  to  keep  it  expectantly  in  tune,  and  to  record  the 
masterpieces. 

It  seems  strange  to  look  back  upon  the  time — thirty-three 
years  ago — when  a  successful  Ontario  educator  felt  justified 
in  the  statement  that  Canada  had  no  national  literature  worthy 
of  the  name,  and  never  would  have  until  the  country  became 
an  independent  nation, — with  no  shackling  colonial  ties.     At 


2v87S3 


Editor's  Foreword 


the  very  moment  that  such  a  declaration  and  prophecy  was 
made,  Roberts  had  beg^un  his  brilhant  career  as  a  writer, 
Isabella  Valancy  Crawford  was  preparing  for  publication  Old 
Spookses'  Pass,  Malcolm's  Katie,  and  Other  Poems,  Charles 
Mair  was  thinking  out  the  construction  of  his  great  drama, 
Tecumseh,  and  Lampman,  Campbell,  the  two  Scotts,  Seranus 
and  Bliss  Carman  were  ambitiously  fingering  the  chords.  And 
to-day  Canadians  have  no  doubt  of  their  national  independence, 
are  prouder  than  ever  of  their  integral  position  in  the  British 
Empire,  and  have  a  school  of  verse,  characterized  by  freshness, 
spontaneity,  originality  of  theme  and  good  artistry,  that  would 
reflect  distinction  on  the  literary  genius  of  any  civilized  people. 

The  criticism  that  "most  of  the  poetry  of  our  day  seems 
to  have  buried  itself  in  obscurity,"  is  not  applicable  to  the 
verse  of  Canada.  Even  though  much  of  it  is  highly  imagina- 
tive and  descriptive  and  sometimes  profoundly  reflective,  the 
work  of  Canadian  poets  is  exceptionally  free  of  obscurity, 
or  carelessness  in  artistic  utterance.  Love  of  Nature  has 
been  their  chief  source  of  inspiration ;  but  themes  based  on 
love  of  humanity  and  man's  kinship  with  the  Infinite  Life, 
have  steadily  gained  of  late  in  number  and  potency,  and  the 
Great  War  must  necessarily  arouse  a  more  intense  interest 
in  human  and  divine  relationships. 

About  thirty  of  the  articles  in  this  volume, —  revised  and  im- 
proved for  book  publication — have  appeared  during  the  last 
three  years  in  the  Public  Health  Journal,  of  Toronto. 

My  thanks  are  due  to  the  poets  and  the  critics  who  have 
so  graciously  facilitated  the  preparation  of  this  volume,  and 
to  the  following  owners  of  copyrights :  the  living  poets  includ- 
ed ;  Mrs.  W.  H.  Drummond  ;  J.  M.  Dent  &  Sons  ;  S.  B.  Gundy ; 
McClelland,  Goodchild  &  Stewart;  The  Globe  Printing  Com- 
pany ;  The  Methodist  Book  and  Publishing  House ;  Canadian 
Magazine ;  Windsor  Magazine ;  Atlantic  Monthly ;  Metropoli- 
tan magazine ;  University  Magazine ;  Poetry ;  Mitchell  Ken- 
nerley ;  Small,  Maynard  &  Company ;  The  Musson  Book  Com- 
pany; and  Sherman,  French  &  Company. 

Toronto,  Canada,  /^ 

September  1st,  1916.         ai)Ax^(^CLW;>t^ 


Contents 

PAGIS 

Editor's  Foreword       ....  5 

Charles  Sangster  .  .  •  .9 

Charles  Mair  ....  19 

Isabella  Valancy  Crawford  .  .  .     3i 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  ...  47 

Archibald  Lampman  .  .  .  .61 

Frederick  George  Scott  .  •  .75 

Wilfred  Campbell  .  .  .  .87 

George  Frederick  Cameron        .  .  .  101 

Bliss  Carman     .  .  .  •  -109 

S.  Frances  Harrison  .  .  .123 

Duncan  Campbell  Scott     .  .  .  .133 

E.  Pauline  Johnson     ....  145 

E.  W.  Thomson  .  .  .  .157 

Ethelwyn    Wetherald  .  .  .167 

William  Henry  Drummond  .  •  .177 

Jean   Blewett  .  .  .  .189 

Arthur  Wentworth  Hamilton  Eaton  .  .    197 

Helena  Coleman         ....  205 

Thomas  O'Hagan  .  .  .  .213 

Elizabeth  Roberts  MacDonald  .  .  221 

Albert  D.  Watson  .  .  .  -227 

Isabel  Ecclestone  Mackay  .  •  •  237 

Tom  Mclnnes     .....   247 
Helen  M.  Merrill       .  .  .  .259 


^  Contents 

PAGE 
Dr.  J.  D.  Logan  .  .  .  .265 

Annie  Campbell  Huestis  .  .  .  273 

Alan  Sullivan     .  .  .  .  .281 

Alma  Frances  McColIum  .  .  .  289 

Peter  McArthur  .  .  .  .295 

Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall  .  .  .305 

Arthur  Stringer  .  .  .  .313 

Katherine  Hale  ....  323 

Robert  Norwood  .  .  .  .331 

Marian  Osborne         ....  341 

Albert  E.  S.  Smythe  .  .  .  .347 

L.  M.  Montgomery     ....  353 

Robert  W.  Service  .  .  .  .359 

Florence  Randal  Livesay  .  .  .  371 

Theodore  Goodridge  Roberts  '.  .  .  377 

Grace  Blackburn         ....  383 

George  A.  Mackenzie         ....  389 

Gertude  Bartlett        .  .  .  .395 

William  E.  Marshall  .  .  .  .399 

Norah  M.  Holland     .  .  .  .407 

Father  Bollard  .  .  .  .  413 

Laura  E.  McCully       .  .  .  .421 

Lloyd  Roberts     .  .  .  .  .429 

Beatrice  Redpath        ....  437 

Alfred  Gordon  .  .  .  .  .443 

Virna  Sheard  .  .  .  .451 

J.  Edgar  Middleton       .    .  .  .  .459 

Arthur  S.  Bourinot   ....  463 

Index  .....  467 


CANADIAN    POETS 


Charles  Sangster 

To  him  bcluiii^s  the  honour  of  bciiii:;  the  first  f^oct  zvho  made 
appreciative  use  of  Canadian  subjects  in  his  poetical  zcork. 
.  .  .  .  Though  many  defects  may  be  found  in  his  first 
volume,  iiidicatiui^  undue  haste  in  preparation  and  over-con- 
fidence 0)1  the  part  of  the  author,  yet  fine  rJiythm  and  spirit  arc 
often  met  zvith This  volume  established  his  posi- 
tion as  a  poet  of  no  common  poicer,  ichich  was  freely  accorded 
him  by  z^'riters  in  Britain,  in  the  United  States  and  in  Canada. 
The  lyric  to  'The  Isles  in  the  St.  Lazcrence'  is  much  admired, 

and  also  'The  Rapid' The  second  z'oluine  is  not 

open  to  the  same  objections.  The  poems  arc  more  highly 
finished  and  shozv  greater  skill  and  care  in  the  poetic  art. 
Mr.  Sa}igster  is  at   his  best,   perhaps,   in   his   martial  pieces, 

such  as  'Brock,'  'IJ^olfe,'  'Song  for  Canada,'   etc 

He  had  a  passionate  love  for  nature;  but  his  grand  theme  zvas 
love- — the  )ioblest  of  themes. 

— Arciiihai.d  M.\cMrKCiiv.  M.A..  I.L.D. 


[9] 


10  Charles  Saiigster 

CHARLES  SAXGSTER  was  born  at  the  Xavy  Yard, 
Point  Frederick,  Kingston.  Ontario,  on  the  16th  of 
July.  1822.  He  was  the  son  of  a  joiner  in  the  British  Navy, 
and  the  i^rruulson  of  a  United  Empire  Loyalist,  a  Scotch 
solcHer  who  had   fought  in  the  American  Revolution. 

Charles  was  but  two  years  old  when  his  father  died  ;  and 
when  he  was  but  fifteen  years  of  age  he  retired  from  school 
to  assist  his  mother  in  providing'  for  the  family. 

He  found  work,  first,  in  the  naval  laboratory  at  Fort  Henry ; 
and,  second,  in  a  sul)ordinate  position  in  the  Ordnance  Office, 
Kingston,  which  he  held  for  several  years. 

It  was  during  this  period  that  he  began  to  contribute  both 
prose  and  verse  to  the  public  journals.  In  1849,  he  was 
appointed  editor  of  the  Courier  in  Aniherstburg,  and  went 
there  to  reside :  but,  the  following  year,  resigned  and  returned 
to  Kingston,  where  he  joined  the  stafif  of  the  Whig.  Subse- 
quently, in  1864,  the  Daily  Neivs  of  the  same  city  engaged  his 
services. 

It  was  during  his  journalistic  career  in  the  'Limestone  City' 
that  he  accomplished  his  best  literary  work.  His  first  volume, 
The  St.  Laivrence  and  the  Sagiienay,  and  Other  Poems, 
appeared  in  1856,  published  by  subscription  ;  and  his  second, 
Hesperus,  and  Other  Poems  and  Lyrics,  in  1860. 

When  forty-six  years  of  age  he  accepted  a  position  in  the 
Post-Office  Department  at  Ottawa,  where  his  poetic  energy 
and  ambition  succumbed,  apparently,  to  the  incessant  drudgery 
and  to  the  hampering  cares  of  ill-paid  employment. 

Sangster  was  a  poet  born,  but  his  literary  genius  was  handi- 
capped by  his  elementary  education  and  limited  reading'.  For 
his  opportunities,  he  achieved  notably.     He  died  in  1893. 

Sonnet 

I  SAT   within   the  temple  of  her  heart. 
And  watched  the  living  Soul  as  it  passed  through. 
Arrayed  in  pearly  vestments,  white  and  pure. 
The  calm,  immortal  presence  made  me  start. 
It  searched  through  all  the  chambers  of  her  mind 
With  one  mild  glance  of  love,  and  smiled  to  view 
The   fastnesses  of   feeling,   strong,  secure. 
And  safe  from  all  surprise.     It  sits  enshrined 


Charles  Sangster  11 

And  offers  incense  in  her  heart,  as  on 

An  altar  sacred  unto  God.     The  dawn 

Of  an  imperishable  love  passed  through 

The  lattice  of  my  senses,  and  I,  too, 

Did  offer  incense  in  that  solemn  place — 

A  woman's  heart  made  pure  and  sanctified  by  grace. 

Lyric  to  the  Isles 

HERE  the  spirit  of  Beauty   keepeth 
Jubilee  for  evermore ; 
Here  the  voice  of  Gladness  leapeth, 

Echoing  from  shore  to  shore. 
O'er  the  hidden  watery  valley, 

O'er  each  buried  wood  and  glade, 
Dances  our  delighted  galley. 

Through  the  sunlight  and  the  shade; 
Dances  o'er  the  granite  cells. 
Where  the  soul  of  Beauty  dwells; 

Here   the   flowers   are   ever   springing. 

While  the  summer  breezes  blow; 
Here  the  Hours  are  ever  clinging, 

Loitering   before   they   go; 
Playing  round  each  beauteous  islet, 

Loath  to  leave  the  sunny  shore. 
Where,  upon  her  couch  of  violet. 

Beauty  sits  for  evermore ; 

Sits  and  smiles  by  day  and  night, 
Hand  in  hand  with  pure  Delight. 

Here  the  spirit  of  Beauty  dwelleth 

In  each  palpitating  tree, 
In  each  amber  wave  that  welleth 

From  its  home  beneath  the  sea ; 
In   the  moss  upon  the  granite 

In  each  calm,  secluded  bay, 
With  the  zephyr  trains  that  fan  it 

With  their  sweet  breaths  all  the  day — 
On   the  waters,   on   the   shore, 
Beautv  dwelleth  evermore! 


12  Charles  Sangster 

The  Soldiers  of  the  Plough 

NO  maiden  dream,  nor  fancy  theme, 
Brown  Labour's  muse  would  sing; 
Her  stately  mien  and   russet   sheen 

Demand  a  stronger  wing. 
Long  ages  since,  the  sage,  the  prince. 

The  man  of  lordly  brow, 
All  honour  gave  that  army  brave, 
The   Soldiers  of  the   Ploug'h. 
Kind  Heaven  speed  the  plough, 
And  bless  the  hands  that   guide   it ! 
God  gives  the  seed — 
The  bread  we  need, 
Man's  labour  must  provide  it. 

In  every  land,  the  toiling  hand 

Is  blest  as  it  deserves ; 
Not  so  the  race  who,  in  disgrace, 

From  honest  labour  swerves. 
From  fairest  bowers  bring  rarest  flowers 

To  deck  the  swarthy  brow 
Of  him  whose  toil  improves  the  soil, — 
The  Soldier  of  the  Plough. 

Kind  Heaven  speed  the  plough, 
And  bless  the  hands  that  guide  it ! 
God  gives  the  seed — 
The   bread   we  need, 
Man's  labour  must  provide  it. 

Blest  is  his  lot,  in  hall  or  cot. 
Who   lives   as   Nature   wills, 
Who  pours  his  corn  from  Ceres'  horn. 

And  quaffs  his  native  rills ; 
No  breeze  that  sweeps  trade's  stormy  deeps 

Can  touch  his  golden  prow. 
Their  foes  are  few,  their  lives  are  true, 
The  Soldiers  of  the  Plough. 
Kind  Heaven  speed  the  plough. 
And  bless  the  hands  that  guide  it ! 
God  gives  the  seed — 
The  bread  we  need, 
Man's  labour  must  provide  it. 


Charles  Sangster  13 

Harvest  Hymn 

GOD  of  the  Harvest,  Thou,  whose  sun 
Has  ripened  all  the  g^olden  grain. 
We  bless  Thee  for  Thy  bounteous  store. 
The   cup  of  Plenty   running  o'er, 
The  sunshine  and  the  rain ! 

The  year  laughs  out  for  very  joy, 

Its  silver  treble  echoing 
Like  a  sweet  anthem  through  the  woods, 
Till  mellowed  by  the  solitudes 

It  folds  its  glossy  wing. 

But  our  united  voices  blend 

From  day  to  day  unweariedly ; 
Sure  as  the  sun  rolls  up  the  morn, 
Or  twilight  from  the  eve  is  born, 

Our  song  ascends   to  Thee. 

Where'er  the  various-tinted  woods, 
In  all  their  autumn  splendour  dressed. 

Impart  their  gold  and  purple  dyes 

To  distant  hills  and  farthest  skies 
Along  the  crimson  west: 

Across  the  smooth,  extended  plain, 
By  rushing  stream  and  broad  lagoon, 

On  shady  height  and  sunny  dale. 

Wherever  scuds  the  balmy  gale 
Or  gleams  the  autumn  moon : 

From  inland  seas  of  yellow  grain, 
Where  cheerful  Labour,  heaven-blest, 

With  willing  hands  and  keen-edged  scythe, 

And  accents  musically  blythe, 
Reveals  its  lordly  crest : 

From  clover-fields   and  meadows   wide. 
Where  moves  the  richly-laden  wain 

To  barns  well-stored  with  new-made  hay, 

Or  where  the  flail  at  early  day 
Rolls  out  the  ripened  grain : 


14  Charles  Sangster 


From  meads  and  pastures  on  the  hills 
And  in  the  mountain  valleys  deep, 

Alive  with  beeves  and  sweet-breathed  kine 

Of  famous  Ayr  or  Devon's  line 
And  shepherd-guarded  sheep: 

The  spirits  of  the  golden  year, 

From  crystal  caves  and  grottoes  dim, 

From  forest  depths  and  mossy  sward, 

Myriad-tongued,  with  one  accord 
Peal  forth  their  harvest  hymn. 

The  Rapid 

ALL  peacefully  gliding. 
The  waters  dividing, 
The  indolent  batteau  moved  slowly  along. 

The  rowers,  light-hearted, 

From  sorrow  long  parted. 
Beguiled  the  dull  moments  with  laughter  and  song : 
'Hurrah  for  the  rapid  that  merrily,  merrily 

Gambols  and  leaps  on  its  tortuous  way! 
Soon  we  will  enter  it,  cheerily,  cheerily, 

Pleased  with  its  freshness,  and  wet  with  its  spray.' 

More  swiftly  careering, 

The  wild  rapid  nearing, 
They  dash  down  the  stream  like  a  terrified  steed ; 

The  surges  delight  them, 

No  terrors  affright  them, 
Their  voices  keep  pace  with  the  quickening  speed: 
'Hurrah  for  the  rapid  that  merrily,  merrily 

Shivers  its  arrows  against  us  in  play! 
Now  we  have  entered  it,  cheerily,  cheerily, 

Our  spirits  as  lig'ht  as  its  feathery  spray.' 

Fast  downward  they're  dashing. 
Each  fearless  eye  flashing, 
Though  danger  awaits  them  on  every  side. 
Yon  rock — see  it  frowning! 
They  strike — they  are  drowning! 


Charles  Saugster  15 

But  downward  they  speed  with  the  merciless  tide ; 
No  voice  cheers  the  rapid,  that  angrily,  angrily 

Shivers  their  bark  in  its  maddening  play; 
Gaily  they  entered  it — heedlessly,  recklessly. 

Mingling  their  lives  with  its  treacherous  spray ! 

The  Wine  of  Song 

WITHIN  Fancy's  halls  I  sit  and  quaff 
Rich  draughts  of  the  wine  of  Song, 
And  I  drink  and  drink 
To   the   very   brink 
Of   delirium   wild   and   strong, 
Till  I  lose  all  sense  of  the  outer  world 
And   see  not  the  human  throng. 

The  lyral  chords  of  each  rising  thought 
Are   swept  by  a  hand  unseen. 
And  I  glide  and  glide 
With  my  music  bride. 
Where  few  spiritless  souls  have  been; 
And  I  soar  afar  on  wings  of  sound 
With  my  fair  ^olian  queen. 

Deep,  deeper  still,  from  the  springs  of  Thought 
I  quaff  till  the  fount  is  dry, 
And  I   climb  and  climb 
To    a    height    sublime 
Up  the  stars  of  some  lyric  sky, 
Where  I  seem  to  rise  upon  airs  that  melt 
Into  song  as  they  pass  by. 

Millennial  rounds  of  bliss  I  live, 

Withdrawn  from  my  cumb'rous  clay, 
As   I   sweep   and   sweep 
Through    infinite    deep 
On  deep  of  that  starry  spray ; 
Myself  a  sound  on  its  world-wide  round, 
A  tone  on  its  spheral  way. 

And  wheresoe'er  through  the  wondrous  space 
My  soul  wings  its  noiseless  flight, 


16  Charles  Sangster 


On  their  astral  rounds 
Float  divinest  sounds, 
Unseen,  save  by  spirit-sight, 
Obeying  some  wise,  eternal  law, 
As  fixed  as  the  law  of  light. 

But,  oh,  when  my  cup  of  dainty  bliss 
Is  drained  of  the  wine  of  Song, 
How    I    fall    and    fall 
At  the  sober  call 
Of  the  body  that  waiteth  long 
To  hurry  me  back  to  its  cares  terrene. 
And  earth's  spiritless  human  throng! 

Brock 

ONE  voice,  one  people,  one  in  heart 
And  soul  and  feeling  and  desire. 
Re-light  the  smouldering  martial  fire 
And  sound  the  mute  trumpet!  Strike  the  lyre! 
The  hero  dead  cannot  expire: 
The  dead  still  play  their  part. 

Raise  high  the  monumental  stone! 

A  nation's  fealty  is  theirs, 

And  we  are  the  rejoicing  heirs, 

The  honoured  sons  of  sires  whose  cares 

We  take  upon   us  unawares 
As    freely   as   our   own. 

We  boast  not  of  the  victory, 

But  render  homage,  deep  and  just. 
To  his — to  their — immortal  dust. 
Who  proved  so  worthy  of  their  trust; 
No  lofty  pile  nor  sculptured  bust 

Can  herald  their  degree. 

No  tongue  can  blazon  forth  their  fame — 
The  cheers  that  stir  the  sacred  hill 
Are  but  mere  promptings  of  the  will 
That  conquered  them,  that  conquers  still; 
And  generations  yet  shall  thrill 

At  Brock's  remembered  name. 


Charles  Sangster  17 

Some  souls  are  the  Hesperides 

Heaven  sends  to  guard  the  golden  age, 

Illumining   the   historic   page 

With  record  of  their  pilgrimage. 

True  martyr,  hero,  poet,  sage, — 
And  he  was  one  of  tiiese. 

Each  in  his  lofty  sphere,  sublime. 

Sits  crowned  above  the  common  throng: 
Wrestling  with  some  pythonic  wrong 
In  prayer,  in  thunders,  thought  or  song, 
Briareus-limbed,  they  sweep  along. 

The  Typhons  of  the  time. 

The  Plains  of  Abraham 

I    STOOD  upon  the  Plain, 
That  had  trembled  when  the  slain, 
Hurled  their  proud  defiant  curses  at  the  battle-hearted  foe, 
When  the  steed  dashed  right  and  left 
Through  the  bloody  gaps  he  cleft. 
When  the  bridle-rein  was  broken,  and  the  rider  was  laid  low. 

What  busy  feet  had  trod 

Upon  the  very  sod 
Where  I  marshalled  the  battalions  of  my  fancy  to  my  aid! 

And  I  saw  the  combat  dire. 

Heard  the   quick,   incessant   fire. 
And  the  cannons'  echoes  startling  the  reverberating  glade. 

I  saw  them  one  and  all, 

The  banners  of  the  Gaul 
In  the  thickest  of  the  contest,  round  the  resolute  Montcalm ; 

The  well-attended  Wolfe, 

Emerging  from  the  gulf 
Of  the  battle's  fiery  furnace,  like  the  swelling  of  a  psalm. 

I   heard  the  chorus  dire, 
That  jarred  along  the  lyre 
On  which  the  hymn  of  battle  rung,  like  surgings  of  the  wave 
When  the  storm,  at  blackest  night. 


18  Charles  Sangster 

Wakes  the  ocean   in  affright, 
As  it  shouts  its  mighty  pibroch  o'er  some  shipwrecked  vessel's 
grave. 

I  saw  the  broad  claymore 
Flash  from  its  scabbard,  o'er 
The  ranks  that  quailed  and  shuddered  at  the  close  and  fierce 
attack ; 
When  Victory  gave  the  word, 
Then   Scotland   drew   the   sword, 
And  with  arm  that  never  faltered  drove  the  brave  defenders 
back, 

I  saw  two  great  chiefs   die, 

Their  last  breaths  like  the  sigh 
Of  the  zepher-sprite  that  wantons  on  the  rosy  lips  of  morn ; 

No  envy-poisoned  darts, 

No  rancour  in  their  hearts, 
To  unfit  them  for  their  triumph  over  death's  impending  scorn. 

And  as  I  thought  and  gazed. 

My  soul,  exultant,  praised 
The  Power  to  whom  each  mighty  act  and  victory  are  due, 

For  the  saint-like  Peace  that  smiled 

Like  a  heaven-gifted  child. 
And  for  the  air  of  quietude  that  steeped  the  distant  view. 

The   sun   looked   down   with   pride, 

And  scattered   far  and  wide 
His  beams  of  whitest  glory  till  they  flooded  all  the  Plain ; 

The  hills  their  veils  withdrew, 

Of  white,  and  purplish  blue, 
And  reposed  all  green  and  smiling  'neath  the  shower  of  golden 
rain. 

Oh,  rare,  divinest  life 

Of    Peace,   compared    with    Strife! 
Yours  is  the  truest  splendour,  and  the  most  enduring  fame; 

All  the  glory  ever  reaped 

Where  the  fiends  of  battle  leaped, 
Is  harsh  discord  to  the  music  of  your  undertoned  acclaim. 


Charles  Mair 


Charles  Moir  is  the  first  of  our  ports  of  the  nature  sehool. 
.  .  .  .  lie  might  in  many  senses  be  called  the  first  Can- 
adian poet,  as  his  first  7'olume  icas  published  in  1868,  one 
year  follozving  Confederation.  'Dreamland'  zvas  a  small  volume 
of  one  hundred  and  fifty  pages,  printed  at  the  Citizen  Printing 
House  in  Ottazva.  The  author  was  then  in  his  thirtieth 
year.  The  thirty-three  poems  constitute  the  first  attempt  to 
deal  zuith  Canadian  nature,  in  the  manner  of  Keats  and  the 
other  classic  poets,  and  ma)iy  of  them  in  theme  and  treatment 

are  similar  to  the  verse  of  Loinp))iaii  a)id  Roberts 

Afid  there  are  strong  evidences  in  Mair's  zvork  that  he  influ- 
enced these  poets  to  a  great  extent. — W'ilFrkd  Campbeij.,  in 
the  Ottawa  'Journal.' 

Charles  Mair  and  Isabella  J'alariCx  Crawford,  zi'hose 
best  zvork  zcas  zvrittcn  in  the  early  80's  of  last  coiturx, 
zvere  the  first  to  raise  the  standard  of  Canadia)i  poetry  to 
greatness,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  their  zvork  has  since  been  out- 
classed by  that  of  any  successor. — 'Public  Health  Tournal.' 

[19] 


20  Charles  Mair 


AS  Tciii))tsch — a  drama,  native  to  the  soil,  and  still  without 
a  successful  rival — was  published  in  1886.  and  as  the 
same  author,  by  the  publication  in  1868  of  Dreamland  and 
Other  Poems,  originated  our  nature  school  of  verse,  it  seems 
clear  that  the  poetical  work  of  Charles  Mair  has  a  significance 
in  Canadian  literature,  not  yet  fully  recognized. 

Charles  ]\Iair,  son  of  the  late  James  Mair,  a  native  of  Scot- 
land, one  of  the  pioneers  of  the  old  square  timber  trade  in 
the  Ottawa  valley,  and  Margaret  (Holmes)  Mair,  was  born 
in  Lanark,  Ontario,  September.  1838.  He  was  educated  at 
the  Perth  Grammar  School  and  at  Queen's  University,  King- 
ston. In  1867.  he  returned  to  Queen's  College  and  studied 
medicine.  In  the  summer  of  1868,  he  was  called  to  Ottawa 
by  the  Hon.  William  McDougall,  Minister  of  Public  Works, 
to  prepare  a  precis  of  available  records  in  the  Parliamentary 
Library,  pertaining  to  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company's  territories 
and  tenure.  The  following  autumn,  he  was  appointed  pay- 
master of  the  first  expedition  sent  to  the  North- West  by  the 
Canadian  Government,  its  object  being  to  open  up  an  immi- 
gration route  via  the  Lake  of  the  Woods,  and  was  requested 
to  describe  in  the  press,  the  prairie  country  and  its  inducement 
to  settlers.  His  correspondence  to  the  Toronto  Globe  and  the 
Montreal  Gazette  was  widely  copied  and  was  potent  in  in- 
fluencing western  immigration. 

In  Winnipeg,  Sept.  8th,  1869,  he  married  Elizabeth  Louise, 
daughter  of  the  late  Augustus  Mackenney,  Amherstburg.  Ont., 
and  a  niece  of  Sir  John  C.  Schultz,  K.C.M.G. 

During  the  first  Kiel  rebellion,  1869-70.  Mr.  Mair  was  im- 
prisoned by  the  rebels,  and  until  he  escaped,  his  Hfe  was  in 
serious  danger,  but  his  greatest  distress  was  caused  by  the 
loss  of  valuable  manuscripts  which  he  had  taken  with  him  to  the 
West,  to  revise  and  prepare  for  publication,  and  which  his 
memory   was  unable  to  restore. 

This  loss  and  discouragement  doubtless  had  its  effect,  for 
his  next  publication  did  not  appear  until  1886.  In  the  mean- 
time he  was  engaged  in  the  fur  trade  at  Portage  la  Prairie 
and  later  at  Prince  Albert  until  1883,  when  he  returned  to 
Ontario  and  resided  at  Windsor.  It  was  during  the  next 
two  years  that  he  had  leisure  to  write  his  great  drama. 


Charles  Mair  21 


In  1885,  when  the  second  Riel  rebelUon  broke  out,  Mr.  Mair 
promptly  enlisted  and  served  as  quartermaster  in  the  Governor 
General's  Body  Guard,  commanded  by  Col.  G.  T.  Denison. 
Afterwards  he  removed  to  Kelowna,  B.C.,  of  which  he  was 
one  of  the  founders.  Subsequently  he  joined  the  Immigra- 
tion Service  at  Winnipeg,  and  several  years  later,  took  charge 
of  the  Lethbridge  Immigration  Office  and  Agency.  Thence 
was  removed  to  Coutts  on  the  Boundary,  and  was  afterwards 
transferred  as  relieving  officer  to  Fort  Steele,  B.C.,  where  he 
now  resides. 

The  Last  Bison,  an  original  and  virile  poem  of  gripping 
interest,  was  written  in  1890.  In  1901,  his  collected  poems, 
Tecumseh,  a  drama,  and  Canadian  Poems,  was  published; 
and  in  1908,  there  appeared  in  prose,  his  Through  the  Macken- 
zie Basin,  an  important  work  giving  an  account  of  the  great 
Peace  River  Treaty  of  1899,  with  the  Indians  of  the  North, 
who  ceded  a  territory  800  miles  by  400  in  length  and  breadth. 
Mr.  Mair  was  English  Secretary  to  the  Scrip  Commission 
and  gave  a  favourable  account  of  the  vast  region,  since  con- 
firmed by  the  extensive  immigration  into  that  country. 

The  Last  Bison 

EIGHT  years  have  fled  since,  in  the  wilderness, 
I  drew  the  rein  to  rest  my  comrade  there — 
My  supple,  clean-limbed  pony  of  the  plains. 
He  was  a  runner  of  pure  Indian  blood, 
Yet  in  his  eye  still  gleamed  the  desert's  fire, 
And  form  and  action  both  bespoke  the  Barb. 
A  wondrous  creature  is  the  Indian's  horse ; 
Degenerate  now,  but  from  the  'Centaurs'  drawn — 
The   apparitions   which   dissolved   with    fear 
Montezuma's  plumed  Children  of  the  Sun, 
And  throned  rough  Cortez  in  his  realm  of  gold. 

A  gentle  vale,  with  rippling  aspens  clad. 
Yet  open  to  the  breeze,  invited  rest. 
So  there  I  lay,  and  watched  the  sun's  fierce  beams 
Reverberate  in  wreathed  ethereal  flame ; 
Or  gazed  upon  the  leaves  which  buzzed  o'erhead, 
Like  tiny  wings  in  simulated  flight. 
<> 


22  Charles  Mair 


Within  the  vale  a  lakelet,  lashed  with  flowers, 

Lay  like  a  liquid  eye  among-  the  hills. 

Revealing  in  its  depths  the  fulgent  light 

Of   snowy   cloud-land   and  cerulean   skies. 

And  rising,  falling,   fading  far  around, 

The   homeless   and  unfurrowed   prairies   spread 

In  solitude  and  idleness  eterne. 

And  all  was  silent  save  the  rustling  leaf, 
The  gadding  insect,  or  the  grebe's  lone  cry, 
Or  where  Saskatchewan,  with  turbid  moan, 
Deep-sunken   in  the   plain,   his  torrent   poured. 
Here   Loneliness  possessed   her   realm   supreme. 
Her  prairies  all  about  her,  undeflowered, 
Pulsing  beneath  the  summer  sun,  and  sweet 
With  virgin  air  and  waters  undefiled. 
Inviolate  still !     Bright  solitudes,  with  power 
To  charm  the  spirit-bruised,  where  ways  are  foul. 
Into  forgetfulness  of  chuckling  wrong 
And  all  the  weary  clangour  of  the  world. 

Yet,  Sorrow,  too,  had  here  its  kindred  place. 
As  o'er  my  spirit  swept  the  sense  of  change. 
Here  sympathy  could  sigh  o'er  man's  decay ; 
For  here,  but  yesterday,  the  warrior  dwelt 
Whose   faded  nation   had   for   ages   held, 
In  fealty  to  Nature,  these  domains. 
Around   me   were  the   relics   of   his   race : 
The   grassy    circlets    where    his    villag^e    stood, 
Well-ruled  by  custom's  immemorial  law. 
Along  these  slopes  his  happy  ofifspring  roved 
In  days  gone  by,  and  dusky  mothers  plied 
Their  summer  tasks,  or  loitered  in  the  shade. 
Here  the  magician  howled  his  demons  up. 
And  here  the  lodge  of  council  had  its  seat, 
Once   resonant  with  oratory   wild. 
All  vanished!  perished  in  the  swelling  sea 
And  stayless  tide  of   an  enroaching  power 
Whose  civil   fiat,  man-devouring  still. 
Will  leave,  at  last,  no  wilding  on  the  earth 
To  wonder  at  or  love ! 


Charles  Mair  23 


With  them  had  fled 
The   bison-breed    which   overflowed    the   plains, 
And,  undiminished,  fed  uncounted  tribes. 
Its  vestiges  were  here — its  wallows,  paths, 
And   skulls   and   shining-   ribs   and   vertebrae : 
Gray  bones  of  monarchs   from  the  herds,  perchance, 
Descended,   by   De   Vaca   first   beheld, 
Or  Coronada,  in  mad  quest  of  gold. 
Here  hosts  had  had  their  home;  here  had  they  roamed. 
Endless  and   infinite — vast   herds   which   seemed 
Exhaustless  as  the  sea.     All  vanished  now! 
Of  that  wild  tumult  not  a  hoof  remained 
To  scour  the  countless  paths  where  myriads  trod. 

Long  had  I   lain   'twixt  dreams  and  waking,   thus. 

Musing  on  change  and  mutability. 

And    endless    evanescence,    when    a   burst 

Of  sudden  roaring  filled  the  vale  with  sound. 

Perplexed  and  startled,  to  my  feet  I  sprang, 

And   in   amazement   from  my  covert  gazed, 

For,  presently,  into  the  valley  came 

A  mighty  bison,   which,   with   stately  tread 

And  gleaming  eyes,  descended  to  the  shore. 

Spell-bound  I  stood.     Was  this  a  living  form. 

Or  but   an   image   by  the   fancy   drawn? 

But  no — he  breathed!  and  from  a  wound  blood  flowed, 

And  trickled  with  the  frothing  from  his  lips. 

Uneasily  he  gazed,  yet  saw  me  not. 

Haply  concealed ;  then,  with  a  roar  so  loud 

That  all  the  echoes  rent  their  valley-horns, 

He  stood  and  listened;  but  no  voice  replied! 

Deeply  he   drank,  then   lashed  his  quivering  flanks. 

And  roared  again,   and  hearkened,  but  no  sound, 

No  tongue  congenial  answered  to  his  call — 

He  was  the  last  surv^ivor  of  his  clan! 

Huge  was  his  frame!  the  famed  Burdash,  so  grown 
To  that  enormous  bulk  whose  presence  filled 
The  very  vale  with  awe.  His  shining  horns 
Gleamed   black   amidst  his    fell  of   floating  hair — 
His  neck  and  shoulders,   of   the   lion's  build. 


24  Cliarles  Mair 


Were  framed  to  toss  the  world.     Now  stood  he  there 
And  stared,  with  head  upHfted,  at  the  skies, 
Slow-yielding  to  his   deep  and  mortal   wound. 
He   seemed  to  pour  his   mighty   spirit  out 
As  thus  he  gazed,  till  my  own  spirit  burned, 
And   teeming   fancy,   charmed   and   overwrought 
By  all  the  wildering  glamour  of  the  scene, 
Gave  to  that  glorious  attitude  a  voice, 
And,  rapt,  endowed  the  noble  beast  with  song. 

The  Song 

Here  me,  ye   smokeless  skies   and  grass-green   earth, 
Since  by  your  sufferance  still  I  breathe  and  live! 
Through  you   fond   Nature  gave  me  birth, 

And  food  and  freedom — all  she  had  to  give. 
Enough!     I  grew,  and  with  my  kindred  ranged 
Their  realm  stupendous,  changeless   and   unchanged. 

Save  by  the  toil  of  nations  primitive. 
Who  throve  on  us,   and   loved   our   life-stream's   roar, 
And  lived  beside  its  wave,  and  camped  upon  its  shore. 

They  loved  us,  and  they  wasted  not.     They   slew. 

With  pious  hand,  but  for  their  daily  need ; 
Not  wantonly,  but  as  the  due 

Of  stern  necessity  which  Life  doth  breed. 
Yea,  even  as  earth  gave  us  herbage  meet. 
So  yielded  we,  in  turn,  our  substance  sweet 

To  quit  the  claims  of  hunger,  not  of  greed. 
So  stood  it  with  us  that  what  either  did 
Could  not  be  on  the  earth  foregone,  nor  Heaven  forbid. 

And,  so  companioned  in  the  blameless  strife 
Enjoined  upon  all  creatures,  small  and  great, 

Our   ways   were   venial,   and   our   Hfe 
Ended  in   fair   fulfilment  of  our   fate. 

No  gold  to  them  by  sordid  hands  was  passed; 

No  greedy  herdsman  housed  us  from  the  blast; 
Ours  was  the  liberty  of  regions  rife 

In  winter's  snow,  in  summer's  fruits  and  flowers — 

Ours  were  the  virgin  prairies,  and  their  rapture  ours ! 


Charles  Mair 


So  fared  it  with  us  both;  yea,  thus  it  stood 

In   all  our   vvanderinit^s   from   place   to   place, 
Until  the  red  man  mixed  his  blood 

With  paler  currents.     Then  arose  a  race — 
The  reckless  hunters  of  the  plains — who  vied 
In   wanton   slaugliter   for  the   tongue  and  hide, 

To  satisfy  vain  ends  and  longings  base. 
This  grew ;  and  yet  we  flourished,  and  our  name 
Prospered  until  the  pale  destroyer's  concourse  came. 

Then   fell  a  double  terror  on  the  plains, 

The   swift   inspreading  of   destruction   dire — 
Strange  men,  who  ravaged  our  domains 

On  every  hand,  and  ringed  us  round  with  fire ; 
Pale  enemies  who  slew  with  equal  mirth 
The  harmless  or  the  hurtful  things  of  earth, 

In  dead  fruition  of  their  mad  desire : 
The  ministers  of  mischief  and  of  might, 
Who  yearn  for  havoc  as  the  world's  supreme  delight. 

So  waned  the  myriads  which  had  waxed  before 
When  subject  to  the  simple  needs  of  men. 

As  yields  to  eating'  seas  the  shore, 

So  yielded  our  vast  multitude,  and  then — 

It  scattered !     Meagre   bands,   in   wild   dismay, 

Were  parted  and,  for  shelter,  fled  away 

To  barren  wastes,  to  mountain  gorge  and  glen. 

A  respite  brief  from  stern  pursuit  and  care, 

For  still  the  spoiler  sought,  and  still  he  slew  us  there. 

Hear  me,  thou  grass-green  earth,  ye   smokeless   skies, 
Since  by  your  sufferance  still  I  breathe  and  live ! 

The   charity    which    man    denies 

Ye  still   would  tender  to  the   fugitive! 

I  feel  your  mercy  in  my  veins — at  length 

My   heart   revives,   and   strengthens   with  your   strength- 
Too  late,  too  late,  the  courage  ye  would  give ! 

Naught   can   avail   these   wounds,   this   failing  breath. 

This  frame  which  feels,  at  last,  the  wily  touch  of  death. 

Here  must  the  last  of  all  his  kindred  fall; 

Yet,  midst  these   gathering  shadows,   ere   I   die — 


26  Cliarles  Mair 


Responsive   to   an   inward   call, 

My  spirit  fain  would  rise  and  prophesy. 
I  see  our  spoilers  build  their  cities  great 
Upon  our  plains — I  see  their  rich  estate: 

The  centuries  in  dim  procession  fly! 
Long  ages  roll,  and  then  at  length  is  bared 
The  time  when  they  who  spared  not  are  no  longer  spared. 

Once  more  my  vision  sweeps  the  prairies  wide, 
But  now  no  peopled  cities  greet  the  sight; 
All  perished,  now,  their  pomp  and  pride: 
In  solitude  the  wild  wind  takes  delight. 
Naught  but  the  vacant  wilderness  is  seen. 
And  grassy  mounds,   where  cities  once  had  been. 

The  earth  smiles  as  of  yore,  the  skies  are  bright. 
Wild  cattle  graze  and  bellow  on  the  plain, 
And  savage  nations  roam  o'er  native  wilds  again. 


The  burden  ceased,  and  now,  with  head  bowed  down, 

The  bison  smelt,  then  grinned  into  the  air. 

An  awful  anguish  seized  his  giant  frame, 

Cold  shudderings  and  indrawn  gaspings  deep — 

The  spasms  of  illimitable  pain. 

One  stride  he  took,  and  sank  upon  his  knees, 

Glared  stern  defiance  where  I  stood  revealed. 

Then  swayed  to  earth,  and,  with  convulsive  groan, 

Turned  heavily  upon  his  side,  and  died. 

From  'Tecumseh* 

LEFROY.     This  region  is  as  lavish  of  its  flowers 
As  heaven  of  its  primrose  blooms  by  night. 
This  is  the  arum  which  within  its  root 
Folds  life  and  death;  and  this  the  prince's  pine. 
Fadeless   as   love   and  truth — the   fairest   form 
That  ever  sun-shower  washed  with  sudden  rain. 
This  golden  cradle  is  the  moccasin  flower, 
Wherein  the  Indian  hunter  sees  his  hound ; 
And  this  dark  chalice  is  the  pitcher-plant, 
Stored   with   the   water  of    forgetfulness. 
Whoever  drinks  of  it,  whose  heart  is  pure. 


riiarlcs  Mair  27 


Will  sleep  for  aye  'neath  foodful  asphodel 

And  dream  of  endless  love.     I  need  it  not. 

I  am  awake,  and  yet  I  dream  of  love. 

It  is  the  hour  of  meeting,  when  the  sun 

Takes  level  glances  at  these  mighty  woods. 

And    lena   has   never    failed   till    now 

To  meet  me  here.     What  keeps  her?    Can  it  be 

The  Prophet?     Ah,  that  villain  has  a  thought. 

Undreamt   of   by   his   simple    followers. 

Dark  in  his  soul  as  midnight!     If — but  no — 

He   fears  her  though  he   hates. 

What   shall   I   do? 
Rehearse  to  listening  woods,  or  ask  these  oaks 
What  thoughts  they  have,  what  knowledge  of  the  past? 
They  dwarf  me  with  their  greatness,  but  shall  come 
A   meaner   and   a    mightier   than   they, 
And  cut  them  down.     Yet  rather  would  I  dwell 
With  them,  with  wildness  and  its  stealthy  forms — 
Yea,  rather  with  wild  men,  wild  beasts  and  birds, 
Than  in  the  sordid  town  that  here  may  rise. 
For  here  I  am  a  part  of  nature's  self, 
And  not  divorced  from  her  like  men  who  plod 
The  weary  streets  of  care  in  search  of  gain. 
And  here  I  feel  the  friendship  of  the  earth : 
Not  the   soft  cloying  tenderness  of  hand 
Which  fain  would  satiate  the  hungry  soul 
With    household    honey    combs    and    parloured    sweets, 
But  the  strong  friendship  of   primeval   things — 
The  rugged  kindness  of  a  giant  heart. 
And  love  that   lasts. 

I  have  a  poem  made 
Which  doth  concern  earth's  injured  majesty — 
Be  audience,  ye   still  untroubled   stems ! 

(Recites) 
There  was  a  time  on  this  fair  continent 
When   all    things   throve   in    spacious   peacefulness. 
The  prosperous   forests  unmolested  stood. 
For  where  the  stalwart  oak  grew   there  it  lived 
Long   ages,   and   then   died   among   its   kind. 


28  Charles  Mair 


The  hoary  pines — those  ancients  of  the  earth — 
Brimful  of  legends  of  the  early  world, 
Stood  thick  on  their  own  mountains  unsubdued. 
And  all  things  else  illumined  by  the  sun, 
Inland  or  by  the  lifted  wave,  had  rest. 
The  passionate  or  calm  pageants  of  the  skies 
No  artist  drew;  but  in  the  auburn  west 
Innumerable  faces  of  fair  cloud 
Vanished  in  silent  darkness  with  the  day. 
The  prairie  realm — vast  ocean's  paraphrase — 
Rich  in  wild  grasses  numberless,  and  flowers 
Unnamed  save  in  mute  nature's  inventory. 
No  civiUzed  barbarian  trenched  for  gain. 
And  all  that  flowed  was  sweet  and  uncorrupt. 
The   rivers   and  their  tributary   streams, 
Undammed,  wound  on  forever,  and  gave  up 
Their  lonely  torrents  to  weird  gulfs  of  sea, 
And  ocean  wastes  unshadowed  by  a  sail. 
And  all  the  wild  life  of  this  western  world 
Knew  not  the  fear  of  man;  yet  in  those  woods. 
And  by  those  plenteous  streams  and  mig'hty  lakes, 
And  on  stupendous  steppes  of  peerless  plain. 
And  in  the  rocky  gloom  of  canyons  deep. 
Screened  by  the  stony  ribs  of  mountains  hoar 
Which  steeped  their  snowy  peaks  in  purging  cloud. 
And  down  the  continent  where  tropic  suns 
Warmed  to  her  very  heart  the  mother  earth. 
And  in  the  congealed  north  where  silence'  self 
Ached  with  intensity  of  stubborn  frost. 
There  lived  a  soul  more  wild  than  barbarous: 
A  tameless  soul — the  sunburnt  savage  free — 
Free,  and  untainted  by  the  greed  of  gain: 
Great  nature's  man  content  with  nature's   food. 

But  hark!     I   hear  her   footsteps   in  the   leaves — 
And  so  my  poem  ends. 

— Scene  II,  Act  I. 


Charles  Mair  ^9 


Tecumseh  to  General  Harrison 

Tecum  SEH.     .     .     . 
Once   all   this   mighty   continent   was   ours, 
And  the  Great  Spirit  made  it  for  our  use. 
He  knew  no  boundaries,  so  had  we  peace 
In  the  vast  shelter  of  His  handiwork, 
And,  happy  here,  we  cared  not  whence  we  came. 
We  brought  no  evils  thence — no  treasured  hate. 
No  greed  of  gx)ld,  no  quarrels  over  God ; 
Arid  so  our  broils,  to  narrow  issues  joined, 
Were  soon  composed,  and  touched  the  ground  of  peace. 
Our  very  ailments,  rising  from  the  earth. 
And  not  from  any  foul  abuse  in  us. 
Drew  back,  and  let  age  ripen  to  death's  hand. 
Thus  flowed  our  lives  until  your  people  came, 
Till  from  the  East  our  matchless  misery  came! 
Since  then  our  tale   is   crowded   with  your  crimes. 
With  broken  faith,  with  plunder  of  reserves — 
The  sacred  remnants  of  our  wide  domain — 
With  tamp' rings,  and  delirious   feasts  of  fire. 
The  fruit  of  your  thrice-cursed  stills  of  death 
Which  make  our  good  men  bad,  our  bad  men  worse, 
Ay,  blind  them  till  they  grope  in  open  day 
And  stumble  into  miserable  graves ! 
Oh,  it  is  piteous,  for  none  will  hear ! 
There  is  no  hand  to  help,  no  heart  to  feel, 
No  tongue  to  plead  for  us  in  all  your  land. 
But  every  hand  aims  death,  and  every  heart. 
Ulcered  with  hate,  resents  our  presence  here; 
And  every  tongue  cries  for  our  children's  land 
To  expiate  their  crime  of  being  born. 
Oh,  we  have  ever  yielded  in  the  past, 
But  we  shall  yield  no  more !    Those  plains  are  ours ! 
Those  forests  are  our  birth-right  and  our  home! 
Let  not  the  Long-Knife  build  one  cabin  there — 
Or  fire  from  it  will  spread  to  every  roof. 
To  compass  you,  and  light  your  souls  to  death! 

—Scene    IV,    Act    H. 


30  Charles  Mair 


Enter  General  Brock  and  Lefroy 

Brock.     Yon  may  be  right,  Lefroy,  but,  for  my  part, 
I  stand  by  old  tradition  and  the  past. 
My  father's  God  is  wise  enough  for  me. 
And  wise  enough  this  gray  world's  wisest  men. 

Lefroy.     I  tell  you.  Brock, 
The  world  is  wiser  than  its  wisest  men, 
And  shall  outlive  the  wisdom  of  its  gods, 
Made  after  man's  own  liking.     The  crippled  throne 
No  longer  shelters  the  uneasy  king. 
And  outworn   sceptres  and  Imperial  crowns 
Now  grow  fantastic  as  an  idiot's  dream. 
These  perish  with  the  kingly  pastime,  war, 
And  war's  blind  tool,  the  monster.  Ignorance, 
Both  hateful  in  themselves,  but  this  the  worst. 
One  tyrant  will  remain — one  impious  fiend 
Whose  name  is  Gold — our  earliest,  latest  foe. 
Him  must  the  earth  destroy,  ere  man  can  rise. 
Rightly  self-made,  to  his  high  destiny, 
Purged  of  his  grossest  faults :  humane  and  kind ; 
Co-equal   with   his   fellows   and   as   free. 

Brock.     Lefroy,  such  thoughts  let  loose  would  wreck  the 
world. 
The  kingly  function  is  the  soul  of  state, 
The  crown  the  emblem  of  authority. 
And  loyalty  the  symbol  of  all  faith. 
Omitting  these,  man's  government   decays — 
His  family  falls  into   revolt  and   ruin. 
But  let  us  drop  this  bootless  argum.ent, 
And  tell  me  more  of  those  unrivalled  wastes 
You  and  Tecumseh  visited. 

Lefroy.  We  left 

The   silent    forest,   and,   day   after   day, 
Great  prairies  swept  beyond  our  aching  sight 
Into  the  measureless  West ;  uncharted  realms. 
Voiceless  and  calm,   save  when  tempestuous  wind 
Rolled  the   rank  herbage  into   billows   vast. 
And  rushing  tides  which  never  found  a  shore. 
And  tender  clouds,  and  veils  of  morning  mist, 


riiarlos  Mail"  31 


Cast  flying-  shadows,  chased  by   flying  Hght. 

Into  interminable  wildernesses. 

Flushed  with  fresh  blooms,  deep  perfumed  by  the  rose, 

And  murmurous  with  flower-fed  bird  and  bee. 

The   deep-grooved   bison-paths    like    furrows    lay. 

Turned  by  the  cloven  hoofs  of  thundering  herds 

Primeval,  and  still  travelled  as  of  yore. 

And  gloomy  valleys  opened  at  our  feet, 

Shagged    with    dusk   cypresses    and   hoary   pine ; 

The  sunless  gorges,  rummaged  by  the  wolf, 

Which  through  long  reaches  of  the  prairie  wound, 

Then  melted  slowly   into  upland  vales, 

Lingering,  far-stretched  amongst  the  spreading  hills. 

Brock.     What  charming  solitudes!     And  life  was  there? 

Lefroy.     Yes,  life  was  there,  inexplicable  life, 
Still  wasted  by  inexorable   death ! 
There   had   the   stately   stag   his   battle-field — 
Dying  for  mastery  among  his  hinds. 
There  vainly  sprung  the  affrighted  antelope. 
Beset  by  glittering  eyes  and  hurrying   feet. 
The  dancings  grouse,  at  their  insensate  sport. 
Heard  not  the  stealthy  footstep  of  the  fox ; 
The  gopher  on  his  little  earthwork  stood. 
With  folded  arms,  unconscious  of  the  fate 
That  wheeled  in  narrowing  circles  overhead ; 
And  the  poor  mouse,  on  heedless  nibbling  bent. 
Marked  not  the  silent  coiling  of  the  snake. 
At  length  we  heard  a  deep  and  solemn  sound — 
Erupted  moanings  of  the  troubled  earth 
Trembling  beneath  innumerable   feet. 
A  growing  uproar  blending  in  our  ears. 
With  noise  tumultuous  as  ocean's  surge, 
Of  bellowings,  fierce  breath   and  battle   shock, 
And   ardour  of  unconquerable  herds. 
A  multitude  whose  trampling  shook  the  plains, 
With  discord  of  harsh  sound  and  rumblings  deep, 
As  if  the  swift  revolving  earth  had  struck, 
And  from  some  adamantine  peak  recoiled. 
Jarring.     At  length  we  topped  a  high-browed  hill — 
The  last  and  loftiest  of  a  file  of  such — 


32  Charles  Mair 


And,  lo,  before  us  lay  the  tameless  stock, 

Slow  wending  to  the  northward  like  a  cloud ! 

A  multitude   in   motion,   dark  and   dense — 

Far  as  eye  could  reach,  and  farther  still, 

In  countless  myriads  stretched  for  many  a  league. 

Brock.     You  fire  me  with  the  picture !     What  a  scene 

Lefroy.     Nation  on  nation  was  invillaged  there, 
Skirting  the  flanks  of  that  imbanded  host; 
With  chieftains  of  strange  speech  and  port  of  war, 
Who,  battled-armed,  in  weather-brawny  bulk, 
Roamed  fierce  and  free  in  huge  and  wild  content. 
These  gave  Tecumseh  greetings  fair  and  kind. 
Knowing  the  purpose  havened  in  his  soul. 
And  he,  too,  joined  the  chase  as  few  men  dare: 
For   I  have   seen  him,   leaping  from  his  horse. 
Mount  a  careering  bull   in   foaming  flight. 
Urge  it  to  fury  o'er  its  burden  strange, 
Yet  cling  tenacious,   with  a  grip  of   steel, 
Then,  by  a  knife-plunge,   fetch  it  to  its  knees 
In  mid  career  and  pangs  of  speedy  death. 

Brock.     You  rave,  Lefroy,  or  saw  this  in  a  dream! 

Lei^roy.     No,  no;  'tis  true — I  saw  him  do  it,  Brock! 
Then  would  he  seek  the  old,  and  with  his  spoils 
Restore  them  to  the  bounty  of  their  youth, 
Cheering  the  crippled  lodge  with  plenteous  feasts, 
And  warmth  of  glossy  robes,  as  soft  as  down. 
Till  withered  cheeks  ran  o'er  with  feeble  smiles, 
And  tongues,  long  silent,  babbled  of  their  prime. 

Brock.     This  warrior's  fabric  is  of  perfect  parts! 
A  worthy  champion  of  his  race — he  heaps 
Such  giant  obligations  on  our  heads 
As  will  outweigh  repayment.     It  is  late. 
And  rest  must  preface  war's  hot  work  to-morrow, 
Else  would  I  talk  till  morn.     How  still  the  night! 
Here  Peace  has  let  her  silvery  tresses  down 
And  falls  asleep  beside  the  lapping  wave. 

—Scene  VI,  Act  IV. 


Isabella  Valancy  Crawford 

Let  us  to  the  icork  of  this  divinely  dozvered  Isabella — tliis 
atii^elic  mendicant,  craving  nothing  of  life  hut  its  finer  gifts — 
this  blessed  gypsy  of  Canadian  zvoods  and  streams.  What 
(I  royal  life  she  led!  Xo  pose  to  take,  no  reputation  to  sustain, 
no  tendency  to  routine  thinking  or  lassitude  of  the  imaginative 
faculty  to  he  struggled  zeith  ....  not  a  single  syllable 
out-breathing  the  'z'ulgar  luxury  of  despair.'  Happy,  happy 
poet!  She,  like  every  other  genius,  found  in  the  ecstasy  of 
expression  at  the  full  height  of  her  nature  a  compensation 
that  turned  all  outiy.'nrd  trials  into  details  not  zvorth  speaki)ig 

of She   is  purely  a  genius,   not  a   craftsivoman, 

and  a  genius  zcho  has  patience  enough  to  be  an  artist.  She 
has  in  abioulant  nteasure  that  pozcer  of  youth  zvhich  persists 
in  poets  of  ez'cry  age — that  capacity  of  seeing  thi)igs  for  the 
first  time,  and  zi'ith  the  rose  and  pearl  of  dazi'n  upo)i  them. 
.  .  .  .  — Ethki.nwn  W'lrniKRAij)  in  lier  Introduction  to 
'The  Collected  l^oems." 


[:«J 


34  Isabella  Valancy  Crawford 

ISABELLA  \'ALAXCY  CRAWFORD,  one  of  the  great- 
lest  of  women  poets,  was  born  of  cultured  parents,^ — 
Stephen  Dennis  Crawford,  M.D.,  and  Sydney  Scott — in 
Dubhn,  Ireland,  on  Christmas  day,   1850. 

In  1858,  the  family  emig-rated  to  Upper  Canada  and  settled 
at  Paisley,  on  the  Saugeen  river.  Of  these  pioneer  days 
in  Bruce  county,  ]\Iaud  Wheeler  Wilson  writes : 

The  village  was  but  just  struggling  out  of  the  embrace  of  the 
forest,  and  it  was  here  that  the  little  Isabella,  who  had  developed 
into  a  shy  and  studious  child,  blue-eyed  and  with  a  beautiful  profile, 
beheld  the  practical  results  of  those  harbingers  of  civilization — the 
axe,  the  plough  and  the  hammer — whose  work  she  afterward  depicted 

in  Malcolm's  Katie Their  children's  education  was  conducted 

by  both  Dr.  and  Airs.  Crawford.  The  girls  were  carefully  grounded 
in  Latin,  as  well  as  in  the  English  branches.  They  spoke  French 
readily  and  w-ere  conversant  with  the  good  literature  of  the  day, 
Isabella  especially  being  an  omnivorous  reader,  fondest  of  history  and 
of  verse,  and  claiming  Dante  as  her   favourite  poet. 

Good  fortune  did  not  accompany  the  Crawfords  to  the 
New  W^orld.  In  a  few  years,  disease  had  taken  nine  of  the 
tw^elve  children,  and  a  small  medical  practice  had  reduced 
the  family  to  semi-poverty.  In  1864,  the  remaining  members 
moved  to  the  villag'e  of  Lakefield,  the  southern  entrance  to 
the  beautiful  Kawartha  Lakes,  in  the  county  of  Peterborough, 
and  lived  there  about  eight  years.  They  then  moved  to  the 
town  of  Peterboroug'h,  where  the  Doctor  continued  the  prac- 
tice of  his  profession,  until  his  demise  in   1875. 

Prior  to  her  sudden  and  premature  death  from  heart  failure, 
on  February  12th,  1887,  Miss  Crawford  and  her  mother  had 
lived  for  nearly  a  decade  in  the  city  of  Toronto, — most  of  the 
time  in  humble  lodgings  over  a  small  corner  grocery  store  on 
King  St.  Here  this  brilliant  writer  strove  with  tireless  pen, 
to  earn  sufficient  for  their  support.  A  small  quarterly  allow- 
ance was  sent  them  regularly  by  Dr.  John  Irwin  Crawford, 
of  the  Royal  Navy,  to  whom  his  grateful  niece  dedicated  her 
book  of  verse.  Old  Spookses'  Pass,  which  she  published  at 
a  financial  loss  in  1884. 

In  1905,  the  editor  of  this  volume,  with  the  knowledge  and 
consent  of  her  brother,  Mr.  Stephen  Crawford,  collected, 
edited  and  published  Miss  Crawford's  best  poems,  in  a  volume 
of  over  three  hundred  pages,  tog'ether  with  a  comprehensive 
and  critical  Introduction  by  Miss  Wetherald. 


Isabella  Yalancy  Crawford  35 

Songs  for  the  Soldiers 

IF  songs  be  sung-  let  minstrels  strike  their  harps 
To  large  and  joyous  strains,  all  thunder-winged 
To  beat  along  vast  shores.     Ay,  let  their  notes 
Wild  into  eagles  soaring  toward  the  sun, 
And  voiced  like  bugles  bursting  through  the  dawn 
When  armies  leap  to  life!     Give  them  such  breasts 
As  hold  immortal  fires,  and  they  shall  fly, 
Swept  with  our  little  sphere  through  all  the  change 
That   waits   a   whirling   world. 

Joy's   an   immortal ; 
She  hath  a  fiery  fibre  in  her  flesh 
That   will  not  droop  or  die;   so  let   her  chant 
The  paeans  of  the  dead,  where  holy  Grief 
Hath,   trembling,   thrust   the   feeble   mist   aside 
That  veils  her  dead,  and  in  the  wondrous  clasp 
Of    re-possession   ceases   to   be    Grief. 
Joy's  ample  voice  shall  still  roll  over  all. 
And  chronicle  the  heroes  to  young  hearts 

Who  knew  them  not 

There's    glory    on   the    sword 
Tliat  keeps  its  scabbard-sleep,  unless  the  foe 
Beat  at  the   wall,  then   freely  leaps  to  light 
And  thrusts  to  keep  the  sacred  towers  of  Home 
And  the  dear  lines  that  map  the  nation  out  upon  the  world. 

His  Mother 

IN  the  first  dawn  she  lifted  from  her  bed 
The  holy  silver  of  her  noble  head. 
And  listened,  listened,  Hstened  for  his  tread. 
'Too  soon,  too  soon!'  she  murmured,  'Yet  I'll  keep 
My  vigil  longer — thou,  O  tender  Sleep, 
Art  but  the  joy  of  those  who  wake  and  weep! 
'Joy's  self  hath  keen,  wide  eyes.     O  flesh  of  mine, 
And  mine  own  blood  and  bone,  the  very  wine 
Of  my  aged  heart,  I  see  thy  dear  eyes  shine! 
'I  hear  thy  tread ;  thy  light,  loved  footsteps  run 
Along  the  way,  eager  for  that  'Well  done!' 
We'll  weep  and  kiss  to  thee,  my  soldier  son! 


36  Isabella  Valancy  Crawford 

'Blest  mother  I — he  lives!     Yet  had  he  died 
Blest  were  I  still, — I  sent  him  on  the  tide 
Of  my  full  heart  to  save  his  nation's  pride !' 

'O   God,   if  that  I  tremble  so  to-day, 

Bowed  with  such  blessings  that  I  cannot  pray 

By  speech — a  mother  prays,  dear  Lord,  alway 

'In   some   far   fibre  of   her   trembling   mind ! 
I'll  up — I   thought  I   heard  a  bugle  bind 
Its  silver  with  the  silver  of  the  wind.' 

His  Wife  and  Baby 

IN  the  lone  place  of  the  leaves, 
Where  they  touch  the  hanging  eaves, 
There  sprang  a  spray  of  joyous  song  that  sounded  sweet  and 
sturdy ; 
And  the  baby  in  the  bed 
Raised   the   shining   of    his    head, 
And  pulled  the  mother's  lids  apart  to  wake  and  watch  the  birdie. 

She   kissed   lip-dimples   sweet, 

The  red  soles  of  his  feet. 
The  waving  palms  that  patted  hers  as  wind-blown  blossoms 
wander ; 

He  twined  her  tresses  silk 

Round  his  neck  as  white  as  milk — 
'Now,  baby,  say  what  birdie  sings  upon  his  green  spray  yonder.' 

'He   sings  a   plenty   things — 
Just  watch  him  wash  his  wings! 
He  says  Papa  will  march  to-day  with  drums  home  through  the 
city. 
Here,  birdie,  here's  my  cup. 
You  drink  the  milk  all  up ; 
I'll  kiss  you,  birdie,  now  you're  washed  like  baby  clean  and 
pretty.' 

She   rose ;   she   sought  the   skies 
With  the  twin  joys  of  her  eyes ; 
She  sent  the  strong  dove  of  her  soul  up  through  the  dawning's 
glory ; 


Isabella  Valancy  Crawford  37 

She  kissed  upon   her  hand 
The  glowing  golden  band 
That  bound  the  fine  scroll  of  her  life  and  clasped  her  simple 
story. 

His  Sweetheart 

SYLVIA'S  lattices  were  dark- 
Roses  made  them  narrow. 
In  the  dawn  there  came  a  Spark, 

Armed  with  an  arrow : 
Blithe  he  burst  by   dewy   spray, 

Winged   by   bud   and   blossom, 
All   undaunted   urged   his  way 

Straight  to  Sylvia's  bosom. 
'Sylvia !  Sylvia !  Sylvia !'  he 

Like  a  bee  kept  humming, 
'Wake,  my  sweeting;  waken  thee, 

For  thy  Soldier's  coming!' 

Sylvia  sleeping  in  the  dawn, 

Dreams   that  Cupid's  trill  is 
Roses  singing  on  the  lawn, 

Courting  crested  lilies. 
Sylvia  smiles  and  Sylvia  sleeps, 

Sylvia  weeps  and  slumbers; 
Cupid  to  her  pink  ear  creeps, 

Pipes  his  pretty  numbers. 
Sylvia  dreams  that  bugles  play, 

Hears   a   martial   drumming ; 
Sylvia  springs  to  meet  the  day 

With   her    Soldier   coming. 

Happy   Sylvia,  on  thee  wait 

All  the  gracious  graces ! 
\'enus  mild  her  cestus  plait 

Round  thy  lawns  and  laces ! 
Flora  fling  a  flower  most  fair, 

Hope  a  rainbow  lend  thee ! 
All  the  nymphs  to  Cupid  dear 

On  this  day  befriend  thee ! 
'Sylvia!  Sylvia!  Sylvia!'  hear 


6  "jtj^.'Of'^.'fr^  ^ 


3B  Isabella  Valanc}^  Crawford 

How  he  keeps  a-humming, 
Laughing  in  her  jewelled  ear, 
'Sweet,   thy   Soldier's  coming!' 

From  '  Malcolm's  Katie  ' 

O    LIGHT  canoe,  where  dost  thou  glide? 
Below  thee  gleams  no  silvered  tide. 
But  concave  heaven's  chiefest  pride. 

Above  thee  burns  Eve's  rosy  bar; 
Below  thee  throbs  her  darling  star; 
Deep  'neath  thy  keel  her  round  worlds  are. 

Above,  below — O  sweet  surprise 
To  gladden  happy  lover's  eyes ! 
No  earth,  no  wave — all  jewelled   skies. 


There  came  a  morn  the  Moon  of  Falling  Leaves 
With  her  twin  silver  blades  had  only  hung 
Above  the  low  set  cedars  of  the  swamp 
For  one  brief  quarter,  when  the  Sun  arose 
Lusty  with  light  and  full  of  summer  heat, 
And,  pointing  with  his  arrows  at  the  blue 
Closed  wigwam  curtains  of  the  sleeping  Moon, 
Laughed  with  the  noise  of  arching  cataracts, 
And  with  the  dove-like  cooing  of  the  woods. 
And  with  the  shrill  cry  of  the  diving  loon, 
And  with  the  wash  of  saltless   rounded  seas, 
And  mocked  the  white  Moon  of  the  Falling  Leaves 

"Esa !  esa !   shame  upon  you,  Pale   Face ! 
Shame  upon  you,  Moon  of  Evil  Witches! 
Have  you  killed  the  happy,   laughing  Summer? 
Have  you  slain  the  mother  of  the  flowers 
With  your  icy   spells  of  might   and  magic? 
Have  you   laid  her   dead  within  my  arms? 
Wrapped   her,   mocking,   in   a   rainbow   blanket? 
Drowned  her  in  the   frost-mist  of  your  anger? 
She  is  gone  a  little  way  before  me ; 
Gone  an  arrow's  flight  beyond  my  vision. 


Isabella  Valaucy  Oawford  39 

She   will   turn  again   and   come   to   meet   nie 

With  the  ghosts  of  all  the  stricken  flowers, 

In  a  blue  smoke  in  her  naked   forests. 

She  will  linger,  kissing  all  the  branches ; 

She   will   linger,   touching  all   the   places, 

Bare  and  naked,  with  her  golden  fingers, 

Saying,  'Sleep  and  dream  of  me,  my  children  : 

Dream  of  me,  the  mystic  Indian  Summer, — 

I  who,  slain  by  the  cold  Moon  of  Terror, 

Can  return  across  the  path  of   Spirits, 

Bearing  still  my  heart  of  love  and  tire, 

Looking  with  my  eyes  of  warmth  and  splendour, 

Whispering  lowly  through  your  sleep  of  sunshine. 

I,  the  laughing  Summer,  am  not  turned 

Into  dry  dust,  whirling  on  the  prairies. 

Into  red  clay,  crushed  beneath  the  snowdrifts. 

I  am  still  the  mother  of  sweet  flowers 

Growing  but  an  arrow's  flight  beyond  you 

In  the  Happy  Hunting- Ground — the  quiver 

Of  great  Manitou,  where  all  the  arrows 

He  has  shot  from  His  great  bow  of  Power, 

With  its  clear,  bright  singing  cord  of  Wisdom, 

Are  re-gathered,  plumed  again   and   brightened. 

And  shot  out,  re-barbed  with  Love  and  Wisdom; 

Always  shot,  and  evermore  returning. 

Sleep,  my  children,   smiling  in   your   heart-seeds 

At  the  spirit  words  of  Indian  Summer.' 

Thus,  O  Moon  of  Falling  Leaves,  I  mock  you ! 

Have  you  slain  my  gold-eyed  squaw,  the  Summer?" 

The  mighty  Morn  strode  laug'hing  up  the  land, 
And   Max,  the  lab'rer  and  the  lover,  stood 
Within  the  forest's  edge  beside  a  tree — 
The  mossy  king  of  all  the  woody  tribes — 
Whose  clattering  branches  rattled,  shuddering, 
As  the  bright  axe  cleaved  moon-like  through  the  air, 
Waking  the  strange  thunders,  rousing  echoes  linked. 
From  the  full  lion-throated  roar  to  sighs 
Stealing  on  dove-wings  through  the  distant  aisles. 
Swift  fell  the  axe,  swift  followed  roar  on  roar, 
3 


40  Isabella  Valancy  Crawford 

Till   the  bare   woodland   bellowed   in   its   rage 

As  the  first-slain  slow  toppled  to  his  fall. 

*0   King  of   Desolation,   art   thou   dead?' 

Cried  Max,  and  laughing,  heart  and  lips,  leaped  on 

The  vast  prone  trunk.     'And  have  I  slain  a  king? 

Above  his  ashes  will  I  build  my  house ; 

No   slave  beneath   its  pillars,  but — a  king'!' 

Max  wrought  alone  but  for  a  half-breed  lad 
With  tough,  lithe  sinews,  and  deep  Indian  eyes 
Lit  with  a  Gallic  sparkle.     Max  the  lover  found 
The  lab'rer's  arms  grow  mightier  day  by  day, 
More  iron-welded,  as  he  slew  the  trees ; 
And  with  the  constant  yearning  of  his  heart 
Toward  little  Kate,  part  of  a  world  away, 
His  young  soul  grew  and  showed  a  virile  front. 
Full-muscled  and  large-statured  like  his  flesh. 

Soon  the  great  heaps  of  brush  were  builded  high, 
And,  like  a  victor.  Max  made  pause  to  clear 
His  battle-field  high  strewn  with  tangled  dead. 
Then  roared  the  crackling  mountains,  and  their  fires 
Met  in  high  heaven,  clasping  flame  with  flame; 
The  thin  winds  swept  a  cosmos  of  red  sparks 
Across  the  bleak  midnight  sky;  and  the  sun 
Walked  pale  behind  the  resinous  black  smoke. 

And  Max  cared  little  for  the  blotted  sun. 

And  nothing  for  the  startled,  outshone  stars; 

For  love,  once  set  within  a  lover's  breast, 

Has  its  own  sun,  its  own  peculiar  sky, 

AH  one  great  daffodil,  on  which  do  lie 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  all  seen  at  once 

And  never  setting,  but  all  shining  straight 

Into  the  faces  of  the  trinity — 

The  one  beloved,  the  lover,  and  sweet  love. 


O   Love  builds   on   the   azure   sea. 
And  Love  builds  on  the  golden  sand, 

And  Love  builds  on  the  rose-winged  cloud, 
And  sometimes  Love  builds  on  the  land! 


Isabella  Valancy  Crawford  ^i 

O   if  Love  build  on   sparkling   sea, 

And  if  Love  build  on  golden  strand, 
And  if  Love  build  on  rosy  cloud, 

To  Love  these  are  the  solid  land ! 

O  Love  will  build  his   lily  walls, 

And  Love  his  pearly  roof  will  rear 
On  cloud,  or  land,  or  mist,  or  sea — 

Love's  solid  land  is  everywhere ! 


From  his  far  wigwam  sprang  the  strong  North  Wind 

And  rushed  with  war-cry  down  the  steep  ravines, 

And  wrestled  with  the  giants  of  the  woods; 

And  with  his  ice-club  beat  the  swelling  crests 

Of  the   deep   watercourses   into   death ; 

And  with  his  chill  foot  froze  the  whirling  leaves 

Of  dun  and  gold  and   fire  in   icy  banks ; 

And  smote  the  tall  reeds  to  the  hardened  earth, 

And  sent  his  whistling  arrows  o'er  the  plains. 

Scattering  the  lingering  herds ;  and  sudden  paused, 

When  he  had  frozen  all  the  running  streams. 

And  hunted  with  his  war-cry  all  the  things 

That  breathed  about  the  woods,  or  roamed  the  bleak, 

Bare  prairies  swelling  to  the  mournful  sky. 

"White  squaw !"  he  shouted,  troubled  in  his  soul, 

"I  slew  the  dead,  unplumed  before ;  wrestled 

With  naked  chiefs  scalped  of  their  leafy  plumes ; 

I  bound  sick  rivers  in  cold  thongs  of  death. 

And  shot  my  arrows  over  swooning  plains, 

Bright  with  the  paint  of  death,  and  lean  and  bare. 

And  all  the  braves  of  my  loud  tribe  will  mock 

And  point  at  me  when  our  great  chief,  the  Sun, 

Relights  his  council  fire  in  the  Moon 

Of  Budding  Leaves:  'Ugh.  ugh!  he  is  a  brave! 

He  fights  with  squaws  and  takes  the  scalps  of  babes!' 

And  the  least  wind  will  blow   his  calumet, 

Filled  with  the  breath  of  smallest  flowers,  across 

The  war-paint  on  my  face,  and  pointing  with 

His  small,  bright  pipe,  that  never  moved  a  spear 


42  Isabella  Valaucy  Crawford 

Of  bearded  rice,  cry,  'Ugh !  he  slays  the  dead !' 
O  my  white  squaw,  come  from  thy  wig^vam  grey, 
Spread  thy  white  blanket  on  the  twice-slain  dead. 
And  hide  them  ere  the  waking  of  the  Sun !" 

High  grew  the  snow  beneath  the  low-hung  sky. 
And  all  was  silent  in  the  wilderness ; 
In  trance  of  stillness   Nature  heard  her  God 
Rebuilding  her  spent  fires,  and  veiled  her   face 
While  the  Great  Worker  brooded  o'er  his  Work, 

'Bite  deep  and  wide,  O  Axe,  the  tree! 
What  doth  thy  bold  voice  promise  me?' 

'I    promise   thee   all   joyous   things 
That   furnish   forth  the   lives  of  kings; 

'For  every  silver  ringing  blow 
Cities  and  palaces  shall  grow.' 

'Bite  deep  and  wide,   O  Axe,   the  tree! 
Tell   wider  prophecies   to  me.' 

'When  rust  hath  gnawed  me  deep  and  red, 
A  Nation  strong  shall  lift  his  head. 

'His  crown  the  very  heavens  shall  smite, 
.^ons   shall  build  him   in   his   might.' 

'Bite  deep  and  wide,  O  Axe,  the  tree! 
Bright  Seer,  help  on  thy  prophecy!' 

Max  smote  the  snow-weighed  tree  and  lightly  laughed, 
'See,  friend,'  he  cried  to  one  that  looked  and  smiled, 
'My  axe  and  I,  we  do  immortal  tasks; 
We  build  up  nations — this  my  axe  and  I.' 


Who  curseth   Sorrow   knows  her  not  at   all. 
Dark  matrix  she,  from  which  the  human  soul 
Has  its  last  birth;  whence  it,  with  misty  thews 
Close  knitted  in  her  blackness,   issues  out 
Strong  for  immortal  toil  up  such  great  heights 
As   crown  o'er   crown   rise  through   Eternity. 
Without  the  loud,  deep  clamour  of  her  wail, 
The  iron  of  her  hands,  the  biting  brine 


Isabella  Valancv  Crawford  43 


Of  her  black  tears,  the  sonl,  but  hglitly  built 

Of   indeterminate   spirit,    like   a   mist 

Would  lapse  to  chaos  in  soft,  gilded  dreams, 

As  mists  fade  in  the  gazing  of  the  sun. 

Sorrow,   dark   mother  of  the   soul,  arise ! 

Be  crowned  with  spheres  where  thy  blest  children  dwell. 

Who,  but  for  thee,  were  not.  No  lesser  seat 

Be  thine,  thou  Helper  of  the  Universe, 

Than  planet  on  planet  piled — thou  instrument 

Close  clasped  within  the  great  Creative  Hand! 

From  'The  Helot' 

WHO  may  quench  the  god-born  fire 
Pulsing  at  the  soul's  deep  root? 
Tyrant,  grind  it  in  the  mire, 
Lo,    it   vivifies    the   brute ! 

Stings   the    chain-embruted   clay, 

Senseless   to   his   yoke-bound   shame; 

Goads  him  on  to  rend  and  slay, 
Knowing   not   the   spurring   flame! 

Tyrant,  changeless  stand  the  gods, 
Nor  their  calm  might  yielded  thee ; 

Not  beneath  thy  chains  and  rods 
Dies   man's   god-gift.   Liberty! 

Bruteward  lash  thy  Helots,  hold 

Brain  and  soul  and  clay  in  gyves, 
Coin  their  blood  and  sweat  in  gold. 

Build  thy  cities  on  their  lives, — 
Comes  a  day  the  spark  divine 

Answers  to  the  gods  who  gave ; 
Fierce  the  hot  flames  pant  and  shine 

In  the  bruised  breast  of  the  slave. 
Changeless  stand  the  gods! — nor  he 

Knows  he  answers  their  behest, 
Feels  the  might  of  their  decree 

In  the  blind  rage  of  his  breast. 
Tyrant,  tremble  when  ye  tread 

Down  the  servile  Helot  clods ! 


♦4  Isabella  Valancy  Crawford 

Under  despot  heel  is  bred 
The  white  ang>er  of  the  gods. 

Through  the  shackle-cankered  dust, 
Through  the  gyved  soul,  foul  and  dark, 

Force  they,  changeless  gods  and  just, 
Up  the  bright,  eternal  spark. 

Till,  like  lightnings  vast  and  fierce, 
On  the  land  its  terror  smites ; 

Till  its  flames  the  tyrant  pierce, 
Till  the  dust  the  despot  bites. 

The  Mother's  Soul 

WHEN  the  moon  was  horned  the  mother  died, 
And  the  child  pulled  at  her  hand  and  knee. 
And  he  rubbed  her  cheek  and  loudly  cried : 
'O  mother,  arise,  give  bread  to  me!' 
But  the  pine  tree  bent  its  head, 
And  the  wind  at  the  door-post  said : 
'O  child,  thy  mother  is  dead !' 

The  sun  set  his  loom  to  weave  the  day ; 

The  frost  bit  sharp  like  a  silent  cur ; 
The  child  by  her  pillow  paused  in  his  play : 
'Mother,  build  up  the  sweet  fire  of  fir !' 
But  the  fir  tree  shook  its  cones. 
And  loud  cried  the  pitiful  stones : 
'Wolf  Death  has  thy  mother's  bones!' 

They  bore  the  mother  out  on  her  bier ; 

Their  tears  made  warm  her  breast  and  shroud  ; 
The  smiling  child  at  her  head  stood  near ; 
And  the  long,  white  tapers  shook  and  bowed. 
And  said  with  their  tongues  of  gold, 
To  the  ice  lumps  of  the  grave  mold : 
'How  heavy  are  ye  and  cold!' 

They  buried  the  mother;  to  the  feast 

They  flocked  with  the  beaks  of  unclean  crows. 

The  wind  came  up  from  the  red-eyed  east 
And  bore  in  its  arms  the  chill,  soft  snows. 
They  said  to  each  other:  'Sere 


Isabella  Valaiicy  Crawford  ** 

Are  the  hearts  the  mother  held  dear ; 
Forgotten,  her  babe  plays  here !' 

The  child  with  the  tender  snowflakes  played, 

And  the  wind  on  its  fingers  twined  his  hair ; 
And  still  by  the  tall,  brown  grave  he  stayed, 
Alone  in  the  churchyard  lean  and  bare. 
The  sods  on  the  high  grave  cried 
To  the  mother's  white  breast  inside : 
'Lie  still ;  in  thy  deep  rest  bide !' 

Her  breast  lay  still  like  a  long-chilled  stone. 

Her  soul  was  out  on  the  bleak,  grey  day ; 
She  saw  her  child  by  the  grave  alone, 
With  the  sods  and  snow  and  wind  at  play. 
Said  the  sharp  lips  of  the  rush, 
'Red  as  thy  roses,  O  bush, 
With  anger  the  dead  can  blush !' 

A  butterfly  to  the  child's  breast  flew,* 

Fluttered  its  wings  on  his  sweet,  round  cheek. 
Danced  by  his  fingers,  small,. cold  and  blue. 
The  sun  strode  down  past  the  mountain  peak. 
The  butterfly  whispered  low 
To  the  child:  'Babe,  follow  me;  know, 
Cold  is  the  earth  here  below.' 

The  butterfly  flew ;  followed  the  child, 

Lured  by  the  snowy  torch  of  its  wings; 
The  wind  sighed  after  them  soft  and  wild 
Till  the  stars  wedded  night  with  golden  rings ; 
Till  the  frost  upreared  its  head, 
And  the  ground  to  it  groaned  and  said : 
'The  feet  of  the  child  are  lead !' 

The  child's  head  drooped  to  the  brown,  sere  mold, 
On  the  crackling  cones  his  white  breast  lay ; 

The  butterfly  touched  the  locks  of  gold. 

The  soul  of  the  child  sprang  from  its  clay. 
The  moon  to  the  pine  tree  stole, 

*In  Eastern  Europe  the  soul  of  the  deceased  is  said  to  hover, 
in  the  shape  of  a  bird  or  butterfly,  close  to  the  body  until  after  the 
burial. 


'tfi  Isabella  Valancy  Crawford 

And  silver-lipped,  said  to  its  bole : 
'How  strong  is  the  mother's  soul !' 

The  wings  of  the  butterfly  grew  out 

To  the  mother's  arms,  long,  soft  and  white ; 
She  folded  them  warm  her  babe  about, 
She  kissed  his  lips  into  berries  bright. 
She  warmed  his  soul  on  her  breast; 
And  the  east  called  out  to  the  west: 
'Now  the  mother's  soul  will  rest!' 

Under  the  roof  where  the  burial  feast 

Was  heavy  with  meat  and  red  with  wine, 
Each  crossed  himself  as  out  of  the  east 
A  strange  wind  swept  over  oak  and  pine. 
The  trees  to  the  home-roof  said : 
'  'Tis  but  the  airy  rush  and  tread 
Of  angels  greeting  thy  dead.' 

The  Rose 

THE  Rose  was  given  to  man  for  this : 
He,  sudden  seeing  it  in  later  years, 
Should  swift  remember  Love's  first  lingering  kiss 
And   Grief's   last   Hngering  tears; 

Or,  being  blind,  should  feel  its  yearning  soul 
Knit  all  its  piercing  perfume  round  his  own, 

Till  he  should  see  on  memory's  ample  scroll 
All   roses   he  had   known; 

Or,  being  hard,  perchance  his  finger-tips 
Careless  might  touch  the  satin  of  its  cup, 

And  he  should  feel  a  dead  babe's  budding  lips 
To   his    lips    lifted    up; 

Or,  being  deaf  and  smitten  with  its  star. 
Should,  on  a  sudden,  almost  hear  a  lark 

Rush   singing  up — the   nightingale   afar 
Sing  through  the  dew-bright  dark; 

Or,  sorrow-lost  in  paths  that  round  and  round 
Circle  old  graves,  its  keen  and  vital  breath 

Should  call  to  him  within  the  yew's  bleak  bound 
Of  Life,  and  not  of  Death. 


Charles  G.   D.  Roberts 


Mr.  Roberts  has  tried  a  great  variety  of  tones  and  themes 
ill  the  course  of  his  poetic  career;  no  poet  so  many,  that  I 
know  of.  But  the  deepest  thing  in  his  poetic  passion  and  ex- 
perience is  his  poetry  of  nature  description.  Its  basis  is,  in 
general,  a  pure  ccstheticism,  for  though  it  may  occasionally 
be  mingled  zvith  some  fanciful  train  of  thought  or  have 
appended  to  it  a  Wordszvorthian  moral,  its  value  lies  ivholly 
in  the  gleaming  and  glancing  surface  zchich  it  brings  before 
the  reader's  eye.  This  impressionistic  nature  poetry  is  the 
best  part  of  his  old  Keatsian  heritage  for  one  thing,  and  it 
is  part  perhaps  of  Ids  best  days  also,  the  days  he  describes  in 
'Tantramar  Revisited,'  long  youthful  days  spent  on  the  coast 
or  amongst  the  farmsteads  of  Neic  Brunswick,  ivhen  he 
strove  hardest  to  catch  and  to  shape  into  some  nezv  line  the 
vague,  ez'asive.  elemental  beauty  of  nature.  The  power  n'hich 
he  acquired  then  has  never  deserted  him  amongst  all  the 
transformations  of  spirit  and  literary  ideals  which  he  has 
experienced. — Prof.  James  Cappon.  M.A. 

[47] 


-i^^  diaries  G.  D.  Roberts 

THE  Roberts  family  of  Fredericton,  New  Brunswick,  is 
Canada's  most  distinguished  literary  family.  They  are 
the  sons,  the  daug'hter,  and  the  grandsons  of  the  late 
Rev.  George  Goodridge  Roberts,  M.A.,  LL.D.,  Rector  of 
Fredericton  and  Canon  of  Christ  Church  Cathedral,  and  Emma 
W'etmore  Bliss,  daughter  of  the  late  Hon.  G.  P.  Bliss,  Attor- 
ney-General of  New  Brunswick. 

Charles  George  Douglas  Roberts,  the  eldest  son,  was  born 
at  Douglas,  York  County,  N.B.,  January  10th,  1860.  He  was 
educated  at  the  Fredericton  Collegiate  School,  and  at  the 
University  of  New  Brunswick  (B.A.,  1879,  with  honours  in 
Mental  and  Moral  Science,  and  Political  Economy;  M.A.  in 
1881;  LL.D.,  honorary,  in  1906). 

In  his  twenty-first  year,  he  married  Miss  Mary  L  Fenety, 
daughter  of  the  late  George  E.  Fenety,  Queen's  Printer  of  N.B. 

In  1883-4,  Roberts  was  editor  of  The  Week,  Toronto, 
Ontario  ;  in  1885-8,  Professor  of  English  and  French  Litera- 
ture in  King's  Colleg'e,  Windsor,  Nova  Scotia ;  in  1888-95, 
Professor  of  Eng'lish  and  Economics  in  the  same  College ;  in 
1897-8,  associate  editor  of  The  Illustrated  American,  New 
York.  Since  then,  untrammelled  by  academic  or  editorial 
duties,  he  has  devoted  himself  to  the  writing  and  publishing  of 
many  books,  his  fame  steadily  extending. 

Before  the  close  of  the  19th  century,  he  had  written  and 
published  seven  books  of  verse  of  notable  quality ;  but  in  1901 
he  issued  a  volume  of  poems  selected  from  these,  containing 
all  that  he  wished  to  preserve,  and  of  which  the  first  poem 
is  his  imperishable  threnody,  'Ave !' 

No  other  writer  known  to  me  has  more  intimately  associated 
his  mind  and  spirit  with  every  object  and  phase  of  nature. 
His  poetic  descriptions  are  vividly  real,  and  exquisite  in  beauty 
of  expression,  whilst  his  animal  stories  in  felicitous  literary 
English,  in  accuracy  of  particulars,  in  intensity  of  dramatic 
interest,  are  beyond  criticism. 

Dr.  Roberts  enlisted  in  September,  1914,  as  a  trooper  in 
the  Legion  of  Frontiersmen.  Since  then  he  has  been  promoted 
to  a  Captaincy  in  the  King's  Liverpool  Regiment.  For  some 
months  he  has  been  training  cadets,  etc.,  in  England  and 
Wales.  Captain  Roberts'  family, — wife,  daughter  and  sons — • 
are  living  in  Ottawa,  Canada. 


Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  49 

IN  the  original  co|)y,  the  following-  poems  were  included  in 
full  in  the  next  twelve  pages,  in  this  order:  'The  Solitary 
Woodsman/  'Kinship,'  'The  Succour  of  Gluscap,'  'Two 
Spheres,'  'Earth's  Complines,'  'Introductory,'  'The  Flight  of 
the  Geese,'  'The  Furrow,'  'The  Sower,'  'The  Mowing,'  'Where 
the  Cattle  Come  to  Drink,'  'The  Pumpkins  in  the  Corn'  and 
'A  Nocturne  of  Consecration.' 

Captain  Roberts  cabled  from  England  his  consent,  but  we 
have  been  unable  to  procure  from  his  Boston  publisher,  who 
claims  ownership  of  copyright,  permission  for  their  inclusion. 
However,  we  are  fortunate  in  being  able  to  give  the  reader 
a  number  of  this  popular  author's  more  recent  poems,  and 
copious  extracts  from  the  scholarly,  comprehensive  and 
thorough  critique  on  Roberts  and  the  Influences  of  His  Time 
which  was  published  in  1905,  by  James  Cappon,  M.A.,  Pro- 
fessor of  English  Language  and  Literature,  Queen's  Uni- 
versity. 

Since  the  biographical  data  on  the  preceding  page  were 
printed,  the  Editor  has  secured  this  interesting  extract  from  a 
letter  written  by  Roberts,  in  May,  1907: 

For  the  first  fourteen  years  of  my  life — a  formative  period  which 
influenced  my  future  more  than  any  other — I  lived  in  the  village  of 
Westcock,  below  Sackville,  in  Westmoreland  county  at  the  mouth  of 
the  Tantramar  river.  There  my  home  was  the  old  Westcock  Parsonage, 
of  which  I  have  given  a  very  minute  and  precise  description  in  chapter 
III  of  my  latest  novel.  The  Heart  That  Kiwzvs.  The  opening  chapter 
describes  the  local  scenery  and  those  wonderful  Tantramar  marshes  in 
particular.  My  father  and  mother  are  studied  in  the  characters  of 
the  Rev.  G.  G.  Goodridge  and  Mrs.  Goodridge. 

In  February,  1904,  The  National  Monthly  i)ublished  a 
special  article  by  Arthur  Stringer  on  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts, 
"The  Father  of  Canadian  Poetry."  This  title  has  been  fre- 
quently accorded  him  since  and  it  is  deserved,  if  it  be  under- 
stood to  mean  that  Roberts  influenced  more  than  any  other 
writer  the  remarkable  group  of  poets  who  were  born  in  the 
years,  61-2,  of  last  century,  and  many  of  their  successors. 
But  the  evidence  is  conclusive  that  Charles  Mair  and  Isabella 
Valancy  Crawford  preceded  him  in  the  writing  and  publishing 
of  great  verse,  whether  in  the  interpretation  and  description 
of  nature  or  of  human  life. 


50  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 


Cambrai  and  Mame 

BEFORE  our  trenches  at  Cambrai 
We  saw  their  columns  cringe  away. 
We  saw  their  masses  melt  and  reel 
Before  our  line  of  leaping  steel. 

A  handful  to  their  storming  hordes, 

We  scourged  them  with  the  scourge  of  swords, 

And  still,  the  more  we  slew,  the  more 

Came  up  for  every  slain  a  score. 

Between  the  hedges  and  the  town 
The  cursing  squadrons  we  rode  down ; 
To  stay  them  we  outpoured  our  blood 
Between  the  beetfields  and  the  wood. 

In  that  red  hell  of  shrieking  shell 
Unfaltering  our  gunners  fell ; 
They  fell,  or  ere  that  day  was  done, 
Beside  the  last  unshattered  gun. 

But  still  we  held  them,  like  a  wall 
On  which  the  breakers  vainly  fall — 
Till  came  the  word,  and  we  obeyed. 
Reluctant,  bleeding,  undismayed. 

Our  feet,  astonished,  learned  retreat ; 
Our  souls  rejected  still  defeat; 
Unbroken  still,  a  lion  at  bay, 
We  drew  back  grimly  from  Cambrai. 

In  blood  and  sweat,  with  slaughter  spent, 
They  thought  us  beaten  as  we  went, 
Till  suddenly  we  turned,  and  smote 
The  shout  of  triumph  in  their  throat. 

At  last,  at  last  we  turned  and  stood — 
And  Marne's  fair  water  ran  with  blood ; 
We  stood  by  trench  and  steel  and  gun. 
For  now  the  indignant  flight  was  done. 


Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  51 

We  ploughed  their  shaken  ranks  with  fire, 

We  trod  their  masses  into  mire ; 

Our  sabres  drove  through  their  retreat 

As  drives  the  whirlwind  through  young  wheat. 

At  last,  at  last  we  drove  them  back 
Along  their  drenched  and  smoking  track ; 
We  hurled  them  back,  in  blood  and  flame, 
The  reeking  ways  by  which  they  came. 

By  cumbered  road  and  desperate  ford 
How  fled  their  shamed  and  harassed  horde! 
Shout,  Sons  of  Freemen,  for  the  day 
When  Marne  so  well  avenged  Cambrai ! 

— Westminster  Gazette. 

Wayfarer  of  Earth 

Ul\  heart  of  mine, 
Thou  wayfarer  of  Earth ! 
Of  seed  divine. 
Be  mindful  of  thy  birth. 
Though  the  flesh  faint 
Through  long-endured  constraint 
Of  nights  and  days. 
Lift  up  thy  praise 

To  Life,  that  set  thee  in  such  strenuous  ways. 
And  left  thee  not 
To  drowse  and  rot 
In  some  thick-perfumed  and  luxurious  plot. 

Strong,  strong  is  Earth, 
With  vigour  for  thy  feet, 
To  make  thy  wayfaring 
Tireless  and  fleet. 
And  good  is  Earth — 
But  Earth  not  all  thy  good, 
O  thou  with  seed  of  suns 
And  star-Hre  in  thy  blood. 

.And  though  thou  feel 

The  slow  clog  of  the  hours 

Leaden  upon  thy  heel, 


52  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 

Put  forth  thy  powers. 
Thine  the  deep  sky, 
The  unpreempted  blue, 
The  haste  of  storm, 
The  hush  of  dew. 
Thine,  thine  the  free 
Exalt  of  star  and  tree, 
The  reinless  run 
Of  wind  and  sun, 
The  vasfrance  of  the  sea ! 


— The  Craftsman. 

Monition 

A   FAINT  wind,  blowing  from  World's  End, 
Made  strange  the  city  street, 
A  strange  sound  mingled  in  the  fall 
Of  the  familiar  feet. 

Something  unseen  whirled  with  the  leaves 

To  tap  on  door  and  sill. 
Something  unknown  went  whispering  by 

Even  when  the  wind  was  still. 

And  men  looked  up  with  startled  eyes, 

And  hurried  on  their  way, 
As  if  they  had  been  called,  and  told 

How  brief  their  day.  — Century. 

At  the  Gates  of  Spring 

WITH  April  here, 
And  first  thin  green  on  the  awakening  bough, 
What  wonderful  things  and  dear, 
My  tired  heart  to  cheer, 
At  last  appear ! 

Colours  of  dream  afloat  on  cloud  and  tree, 
So  far,  so  clear, 
A  spell,  a  mystery ; 
And  joys  that  thrill  and  sing, 
New  come  on  mating  wing, 
The  wist  fulness  and  ardour  of  the  spring — 
And  Thou ! 

— The  Smart  Set. 


Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  53 

Ail  Night  the  Lone  Cicada 

ALL  ni^ht  the  lone  cicada 
Kept  shrilling  through  the  rain — 
A  voice  of  joy  undaunted 
By  un forgotten  ])ain. 

Down  from  the  wind-hlown  branches 

Rang  out  the  high  refrain, 
By  tumult  undisheartened, 

By  storm  assailed  in  vain. 

To  looming  vasts  of  mountain 

And  shadowy  deeps  of  plain, 
The  ephemeral,  brave  defiance 

Adventured  not  in  vain. 

Till  to  the  faltering  spirit 

And  to  the  weary  brain, 
From  loss  and  fear  and  failure. 

My  joy  returned  again.  — Century. 

Hilltop  Song 

WHEN  the  lights  come  out  in  the  cottages 
Along  the  shores  at  eve, 
And  across  the  darkening  water 
The  last  pale  colours  leave ; 

And  up  from  the  rock-ridged  pasture  slopes 

The  sheep-bell  tinklings  steal, 
And  the  folds  are  shut,  and  the  shepherds 

Turn  to  their  quiet  meal ; 

And  even  here,  on  the  unfenced  height, 

No  journeying  wind  goes  by. 
But  the  earth-sweet  smells  and  the  home-sweet  sounds 

Mount,  like  prayer,  to  the  sky ; 

Then  from  the  door  of  my  opened  heart 

Old  blindness  and  pride  are  driven, 
Till  I  know  how  high  is  the  humble, 

The  dear  earth  how  close  to  heaven. 

— McClure's  Magazine. 


54  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 


O  Earth,  Sufficing  all  our  Needs 

O  EARTH,  sufficing  all  our  needs,  O  you 
With  room  for  body  and  for  spirit,  too, 
How  patient  while  your  children  vex  their  souls 
Devising  alien  heavens  beyond  your  blue ! 

Dear  dwelling  of  the  immortal  and  unseen, 
How  obstinate  in  my  blindness  have  I  been, 

Not  comprehending  what  your  tender  calls. 
Veiled  promises  and  reassurance,  mean! 

Not  far  and  cold  the  way  that  they  have  gone. 
Who  thro'  your  sundering  darkness  have  withdrawn : 

Almost  within  our  hand-reach  they  remain 
Who  pass  beyond  the  sequence  of  the  dawn. 

Not  far  and  strange  the  heavens,  but  very  near. 
Your  children's  hearts  unknowingly  hold  dear. 

At  times  we  almost  catch  the  door  swung  wide — 
An  unforgotten  voice  almost  we  hear. 

I  am  the  heir  of  heaven — and  you  are  just. 

You,  you  alone  I  know,  and  you  I  trust. 
Tho'  I  seek  God  beyond  the  farthest  star. 

Here  shall  I  find  Him,  in  your  deathless  dust. 

— The  Craftsman. 

Extracts  from  Professor  Cappon*s  Critique 
Elarly  Poems — The  School  of  Keats 

it  is  natural  for  a  young  poet  to  begin  by  following  some  estab- 
lished tradition  in  his  art,  and  Roberts  started  with  one  of  the  highest. 
The  direct  influence  of  Keats  had  almost  ceased  to  be  felt  in  English 
poetry  when  the  Canadian  poet  revived  it  in  its  purest  form  for  his 
countrymen.  His  early  poems  hardly  disguise  the  fact  that  they  are 
imitations  of  Keats,  and  belong  to  that  new  world  of  Arcadia  which 
the  English  poet  had  created.  That  poetic  world  which  Crabbe  and 
Wordsworth,  with  their  naturalism,  thought  they  had  banished ;  that 
land  where  the  departed  gods  and  heroes  of  Hellas  still  live,  where 
the  steps  of  Pan  are  still  heard  in  the  forest,  and  Thetis  glides  with 
siWery  feet  over  the  waves,  had  been  revived  for  us  by  the  poet  of 


Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  55 

Endymion,  and  its  green  bowers  ha<l  allured  a  good  many  poetic 
aspirants  into  them,  amongst  whom  Roberts  may  be  counted  as  the 
latest,  perhaps  the  last.  For  the  poetry  of  to-day  is  looking  for  its 
material  in  another  region  where  the  forms  of  life  are  more  robust 
and  actual  and  the  atmosphere  more  electrical  than  they  are  in  the 
old  legendary  world  of  Arcadia. 

From  a  philosophic  point  of  view,  there  was  nothing  very  complete 
in  Keats'  reconstruction  of  the  Greek  mythology.  But  he  gave  it  all 
that  poetry  needs  to  make  a  new  world  of,  a  new  sky,  a  new  earth  and 
new  seas  enchanting  as  those  of  fairyland ;  he  filled  its  landscape  with 
green  wealth  and  aerial  minstrelsy  and  every  harmonious  form  of 
beauty  in  shape  or  sound  or  colour.  But,  more  than  all,  he  created  the 
language  in  which  alone  this  new  world  could  be  fitly  described,  a  new 
language  of  idyllic  description,  a  language  of  the  subtlest,  impression- 
istic power  which  could  render  the  shapes  of  things  seen  in  this 
dreamland  with  a  visionary  distinctness  altogether  unique.  Its  move- 
ment and  cadence,  too,  were  unique,  natural  as  those  of  a  man  talking 
to  himself,  yet  quaint  and  captivating  as  voices  from  the  cave  of  the 

Sibyl : 

'Twas  a  lay 
More   subtle-cadenced,  more   forest  wild 
Than    Dryope's   lone   lulling   of   her   child; 
And   nothing  since   has  floated   on   the   air 
So    mournful    strange. 

If  Southey  had  been  able  to  discover  a  similar  language  for  his 
Domdaniels  and  Padalons  his  grandiose  epics  would  not  be  where  they 
now  are,  but  that  would  be  saying  that  Southey  had  a  poetic  genius 
which  he  had  not.  The  line  of  Keats  was  a  marvellous  creation,  and 
made  him  the  indispensable  master  for  all  the  idyllic  poets  who  came 
after  him.  He  had  the  master's  secret  of  making  everything  which  he 
touched  new.  His  Apollos  and  Naiads  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
fossilized  mythology  of  the  eighteenth  century  poets;  you  never  thought 
of  comparing  them ;  you  never  thought  of  his  "leaden-eyed  despairs" 
in  connection  with  the  deliberate  personifications  of  Collins  or  Gray. 
no  more  than  you  thought  of  the  stiff  framework  of  the  eighteenth 
century  couplet  in  reading  his  fluent  verse. 

Of  course  there  was  something  in  his  style  which  remains  inimitable 
and  his  own.  The  imaginative  felicity  of  his  phrase,  the  passionate 
simplicity  of  his  cry.  the  entire  naturalness  of  his  movement,  no  one 
could  repeat  these.  But  there  was  also  something  which  could  be  more 
or  less  easily  imitated,  and  this  became  the  possession  of  a  whole 
school  and  even  part  of  the  universal  language  of  poetry.  That  large, 
elusive  epithet,  that  new  reach  of  synecdoche,  those  novel  compounds, 
that  richly  blazoned  phrase  in  general,  with  delicate  luxury  and 
efflorescence,  were  readily  appropriated  by  the  aesthetic  schools  of 
poetry.  Phrases  like  "argent  revelry,"  "warm-cloistered  hours,"  "tall 
oaks  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars,"  set  the  mould  for  a  new 


56  Charles  G.  D.  Koberts 

and  finely  sensuous  impressionism  in  descriptive  poetry.  The  critics 
of  Blackwood  and  the  Quarterly  might  sniff  at  first  at  the  new  poesy 
as  the  sickly  affectation  of  the  Cockney  School,  but  it  could  not  long 
be  neglected  by  young  poets  seeking  to  learn  the  secrets  of  colour  and 
rhythm  in  their  art.  The  youthful  Tennyson  quietly  drew  some  of  his 
finest  threads  for  his  own  loom,  and  Rossetti,  with  the  whole  aesthetic 
school,  shows  everywhere  the  influence  of  Keats'  line.  To  most  of 
them  he  was  more  even  than  Shelley,  for  he  taught  them  more,  though 
the  other,  with  the  star-domed  grandeur  of  his  universe,  and  his  Titanic 
passion  and  conflict,  might  be  the  greater  inspiration  to  them.  William 
Rossetti  says  of  his  famous  brother  that  he  "truly  preferred"  Keats  to 
Shelley,  "though  not  without  some  compunctious  visitings  now  and 
then." 

As  to  Wordsworth's  influence,  it  is  not  surprising  that  there  is  little 
or  no  trace  of  it  in  the  early  work  of  Roberts,  though  it  was  just  the 
time  when  the  reputation  of  the  sage  and  singer  of  Rydal  Mount  was 
in  its  second  bloom  with  the  public,  owing  mainly  to  the  fine  and 
discriminating  criticism  of  Arnold.  But  the  young  poets  of  the 
aesthetic  school  disliked  Wordsworth.  They  hated  the  plain  texture  of 
his  style  and  its  want  of  colour.  It  might,  however,  have  been  well  for 
Roberts  if  he  had  come  under  the  influence  of  Wordsworth's  simplicity 
and  candour  at  this  formative  period  of  his  life. 

But,  for  better  or  worse,  the  school  of  Keats  was  that  in  which 
Mr.  Roberts  received  his  training.  He  simply  lives  at  t];is  period  in 
that  green  world  of  neo-classical  idyllism  which  Keats  had  created. 
The  style  of  the  master,  his  colour,  his  rhythmical  movement,  his 
manner  of  treating  his  subject,  are  reproduced  with  the  interesting  but 
somewhat  deceptive  similitude  which  a  copy  always  gives  of  a  great 
original  ...  in  the  stanzas  of  the  Ariadne  almost  every  epithet 
and  every  verb  recall  something  which  is  familiar  to  us  in  the  manner 
of  the  master: 

[Fart  of  the  "Ode  to  Drowsihood"  is  here  quoted.} 

That  poetry  is  steeped  in  the  rich  Tyrian  dye  of  Keats'  fancy,  and 
the  luxury  of  sense  impression  which  is  so  marked  in  the  work  of  the 
master  is  the  too  exclusive  quality  of  the  disciple's.  For  after  all  there 
is  an  ethical  element  in  the  poetry  of  Keats  which  Roberts  does  not 
reproduce  so  well,  an  insistence  on  the  spirituality  and  the  healthful- 
ness  of  beauty  which  runs  through  all  the  work  of  the  English  poet 
and  gives  its  special  flavour  to  many  of  his  finest  passages.  It  is  the 
ascetic  element  needed  to  complete  the  chord  in  Keats,  without  which 
his  poetry  would  be  rather  overpowering  in  its  sensuous  richness. 
Every  one  knows  the  opening  lines  of  Endymion,  and  the  fine  outburst 
in  The  Ode  to  a  Grecian  Urn: 

Heard    melodies    are    sweet,    but    those    unheard 
Are  sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes  play   on; 
Not  to  the  sensual   ear,  but,  more  endeared, 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone. 


Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  57 

Poetry  of  Nature — Tantramar  Revisited 

The  training  which  Roberts  received  in  the  school  of  Keats  was 
mainlv  that  of  a  nature  poet.  The  underlying  reality  in  the  neo-classical 
idyll  was  its  beautiful,  if  rather  fanciful,  treatment  of  nature,  which 
was  based,  just  as  that  of  the  ancient  idyll  had  been,  on  a  free  selection 
of  all  fine  pastoral  images  untranimeled  by  conditions  of  climate  or 
locality.  The  poet  might  revel  in  any  combination  of  scenery  which 
his  imagination  suggested  as  long  as  he  could  give  the  whole  the 
harmony  which  here  took  the  place  of  reality.  The  oceans  might  be 
as  serene  and  the  Arcadian  hunting  ranges  as  wild  as  he  liked : 

With    muffled    roarings    through    the    clouded    night, 
And   heavy   splashings  through   the   misty   pools. 

Of  course  he  had  chosen  the  school  because  it  gave  a  splendid 
form  to  his  own  natural  instincts  as  a  poet.  His  real  power,  his 
original  impulse  towards  poetry,  lies  nearly  altogether  in  the  region  of 
nature  description,  and  it  was  a  short  and  natural  step  for  him  to  take 
from  the  fanciful  delineations  of  Nature  in  Orion  and  Actceon  to  the 
description  of  actual  Canadian  scenes.  But  it  involved  in  his  case  a 
decided  change  in  the  forms  of  poetic  composition.  The  grand  frame- 
work of  epic  and  idyllic  narrative  which  he  could  use  when  he  had 
that  sh.idowy  Arcadian  mythology  to  fill  it  with  the  shapes  of  life, 
was  laid  aside  ...  It  was  a  change  which  had  already  taken  place 
very  generally  in  the  poetry  of  our  time,  as  part  of  that  return  to 
nature  and  simplicity  of  form  which  had  begun  with  Wordsworth. 
Our  new  singers  seem  no  longer  willing  to  support  the  weight  of  those 
grand  forms  of  stanzaic  verse  which  the  great  poets  of  the  Italian 
Renaissance  and  all  those  who  followed  their  traditions  loved  so  well. 
The  sonnet,  with  its  well-established  paces,  is  about  the  only  great 
traditional  form  in  use  now. 

It  is  a  kind  of  light  lyrical  and  descriptive  verse  which  is  the  most 
characteristic   form  of  Roberts'  productivity  at  this  period : 

[Quotations  from  "Birch  and  Paddle"  and  from  "Aylesford  Lake" 
follow.] 

The  Solitary  Woodsman,  a  little  idyll  of  Canadian  life  which 
haunts  the  mind  after  you  have  read  it,  as  true  poetry  will,  may  be 
noticed  here,  although  it  was  published  at  a  later  time  in  The  Book 
of  the  Native  (1897).  The  Woodsman  represents  nearly  all  that 
Roberts  has  given  us  in  the  way  of  human  portraiture,  and  even  his 
personaKty.  it  must  be  admitted,  is  of  the  faintest.  But  there  is  a 
beautiful  simplicity  and  naturalness  about  the  poem: 

[Four  stanzas  quoted  here.] 

It  needed  only  a  touch  more  to  make  that  solitary  woodsman  as 
universal  and  popular  a  portrait  as  Longfellow's  Village  Blacksmith,  a 
touch  more  of  personal  detail  and  moral  characterization.  A  con- 
templative delicacy  of  feeling  for  nature  is  the  chief  characteristic  of 
the  poems  of  this  class  and  they  are  best  when  they  remain  simply 
descriptive.     .     .     . 

4 


58  Charles  G.  D.  Koberts 

Amongst  all  these  varieties  of  the  Canadian  idyll,  the  one  which 
leaves  the  strongest  impression  on  the  mind  of  originality  in  tone  and 
treatment  is  Tantraviar  Revisited.  Here  Roberts'  classical  taste  in 
style  again  asserted  itself,  though  in  the  not  very  pure  form  of  the 
modern  hexameter.  Longfellow  had  given  the  measure  popular  cur- 
rency on  this  continent  in  his  Evangeline,  and  Mathew  Arnold  had 
lately  been  directing  the  attention  of  literary  circles  to  its  possibilities. 
Both  he  and  the  poet  Clough  had  done  something  to  rescue  it  from 
the  monotonous  softness  of  Longfellow's  movement  and  give  it  more 
strength  and  variety.  Roberts,  who  has  never  quite  lost  his  first  love 
for  the  grand  style,  was  quick  to  profit  by  the  lesson,  and  uses  this 
high  but  somewhat  artificial  form  as  a  mould  in  which  to  pour  his 
tenderest  memories  of  the  scenes  familiar  to  his  youth  on  tiie  coast  of 
New  Brunswick.  There  is  no  direct  picture  of  life  in  the  poem,  not 
a  single  human  figure,  but  the  landscape  is  powerfully  painted  in  large, 
distant,  softened  traits,  the  true  colour  of  elegiac  reminiscence.  Of 
direct  elegiac  reflection  the  poet  has  been  sparing,  perhaps  wisely,  but 
what  there  is  has  a  sincerity  which  shows  how  deeply  he  felt  his 
subject. 

[Twenty-eight  lines  of  quotation  follow.] 

In  spite  of  the  exotic  character  of  the  verse,  which  after  all  is  a 
bar  to  the  highest  qualities  of  expression,  something  of  the  visionary 
eye  and  depth  of  feeling  with  which  the  poet  looks  on  those  scenes  of 
his  boyhood  gets  into  every  line.  The  poem  is  a  true  whole  also  and 
speaks  in  a  subtle  way  to  the  heart.  Perhaps  he  has  lavished  the 
resources  of  his  style  a  little  too  freely  on  that  description  of  the 
empty  net  reels.  Its  luxuriance  is  rather  overpowering.     .     .     . 

Songs  of  the  Common  Day — A  Sonnet  Sequence 

.  .  .  It  was  a  happy  inspiration  which  made  him  think  of 
putting  his  poetic  impressions  of  Canadian  pastoral  life  and  scenery  to- 
gether in  the   form  of   a   sonnet   sequence.     .     .     . 

The  Sonnet  Sequence  is  a  poetic  form  which  unites  a  certain 
harmony  of  effect  with  entire  independence  in  the  treatment  of  each 
member  of  the  series.  It  is  a  succession  of  short  efforts  with  a  con- 
tinuity of  aim  which  is  capable  of  producing  in  the  end  something  of 
the  efifect  of  a  great  whole.  It  has  the  authority  of  great  literary 
traditions  from  Petrarch  to  Wordsworth  and  it  seems  to  be  nearly  the 
only  grard  form  of  composition  which  the  poetry  of  to-day  can  attempt 
with  success.  In  this  form  then  Mr.  Roberts  describes  for  us  the 
general  aspects  of  life  and  nature  as  one  might  see  them  at  some 
Canadian  farmstead,  near  the  coast  of  New  Brunswick,  I  suppose, — 
spring  pastures  and  summer  pools,  burnt  lands  and  clearings,  fir  forests 
and  the  winter  stillness  of  the  woods,  mingled  with  descriptions  of  the 
common  occupations  of  farm  life,  milking  time  and  mowing,  the  potato 
harvest,  bringing  home  the  cattle  and  the  like,  all  in  a  kind  of  sequence 
from  spring  sowing  to  midwinter  thaw. 


Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 59 

The  poet.  1  need  hardly  say,  finds  a  splendid  field  here  for  the 
impressionistic  glance  and  vision.  Look  at  this  description  of  a  Sep- 
tember afternoon  : 

[Quotation  from  "In  September."] 

Or  at  this,  from  the  sonnet  Where  the  Cattle  Come  to  Drink: 

[Second  quatrain  of  the  octave  quoted.] 

If  these  passages  were  found  in  Wordsworth,  say  in  the  series  of 
sonnets  on  the  Duddon,  they  would  he  quoted  by  everyone  as  fine  and 
subtle  renderings  of  the  moods  of  nature.  Another  striking  example 
of  Roberts'  gift  in  this  direction  is  to  be  found  in  the  last  sonnet  of 
the  series,  The  Flight  of  the  Geese.     I  shall  quote  it  in  full: 

The  purest  might  find  fault  with  the  strong  lyrism  of  that  sonnet 
and  with  inelegances  like  that  thrice  repeated  overflow  from  two  final 
words  of  the  same  structure,  but  it  is  a  splendid  piece  of  imaginative 
impressionism  and  a  fine  example  of  Roberts'  power  of  style  in  this 
field. 

Many  of  these  sonnets  have  a  luxuriance  of  style  and  fancy, 
particularly  in  the  direction  of  what  Ruskin  has  called  the  Pathetic 
Fallacy,  which  is  perhaps  excessive  for  this  poetic  form  with  its  small 
compass;  but  some  of  them  also  show  a  new  plainness  of  style  and 
treatment  indicating  that  realistic  influences  from  Wordsworth  are 
beginning  to  work  on  Roberts.  Sometimes  there  is  even  a  kind  of 
roughness  in  the  manner  of  giving  details,  as  in  the  following  from 
The  Potato  Harvest: 

[The  sestet  quoted  in  full] 

The  Furrow  and  In  an  Old  Barn  are  also,  in  part  at  least,  examples 
of  this  closer,  more  realistic  treatment.  Here,  too,  I  may  notice  The 
Sower,  the  poet's  popular  masterpiece,  which  hits  the  golden  mean 
between  austerity  and  luxuriance  of  style: 

[The  Sozver  is  given  in  full.] 

The  selection  and  treatment  of  materials  in  that  sonnet  are  perfect. 
It  is  equally  free  from  unleavened  realism  of  detail  and  from  impres- 
sionistic finery,  from  those  overfeathered  shafts  of  phrase  which  hang 
so  heavy  on  the  thought  in  sonnets  like  The  Summer  Pool  and  A 
Vesper  Sonnet.  The  traits  are  select,  harmonious  and  firmly  drawn, 
with  a  wise  economy  of  stroke.  The  manner  in  which  the  eye  is  con- 
ducted from  the  solitary  field  to  the  distant  horizon,  where  lies  that 
world  of  men  for  whom  the  sower  works,  and  then  concentrated  again 
on  the  scene  of  the  sower's  labour  and  his  movements,  is  a  good 
illustration  of  the  simplicity  and  naturalness  of  a  perfect  piece  of  art. 
The  closing  thought  is  noble  and  true  to  the  subject,  reflecting  itself 
powerfully  back  on  the  previous  details  in  a  way  which  gives  them  new 
significance. 

Technically  Mr.  Roberts'  sonnets  generally  show  something  of  the 
structural  freedom  and  something  also  of  the  looseness  of  conception 
which  are  characteristic  of  American  sonnets.     The  rhyme  system  as 


60  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 

a  rule  is  the  pure  Petrarchan,  but  as  often  as  not  he  entirely  disregards 
the  division  of  thought  in  the  two  quatrains  of  the  octave.  Sometimes 
the  poise  and  counterpoise  of  thought  between  the  octave  and  sestet 
is  strongly  marked,  the  first  containing  the  descriptive  part  and  the 
second  the  moral  which  the  poet  appends  to  it.  At  other  times  the 
division  is  but  faintly  felt,  though  it  often  exists  in  a  form  which  is 
virtually  a  new  type  of  sonnet  structure.  In  this  type  the  octave  gives 
the  general  outline  of  a  landscape  and  is  followed  by  a  sestet  which 
gives  a  more  particular  description  of  some  characteristic  or  significant 
object  in  it.  This  is  the  structural  character  of  The  Herring  Weir, 
The  Oat  Threshing,  The  Sower,  The  Flight  of  the  Geese,  and  other 
sonnets.  In  this  way  the  old  function  of  the  sestet  in  summing  up  or 
pointing  the  significance  of  the  octave  is  revived  in  a  new  form,  and 
when  the  object  thus  selected  for  particular  treatment  is  significant 
enough,  and  its  connection  with  the  description  in  the  octave  evident 
and  inevitable,  this  arrangement  makes  an  excellent  type  of  sonnet. 
It  is  part  of  the  perfection  of  The  Sower  that  the  connection  between 
the  landscape  described  in  the  octave  and  the  object  described  in  the 
sestet  is  of  this  natural,  inevitable  kind.  But  The  Sower  perhaps,  owes 
something  of  the  selectness  and  harmony  of  its  details  to  the  fact  that 
the  subject  is  one  which  has  been  worked  over  by  more  than  one  great 
mind  in  the  sister  arts  of  painting  and  engraving.  It  is  a  curious 
example  of  the  relation  which  may  occasionally  exist  between  poetry 
and  the  other  fine  arts,  and  Roberts  may  be  counted  fortunate  in 
having  furnished  a  perfect  literary  expression  for  a  conception  on 
which  Diirer  and  Millet  had  laboured. 

On  the  whole  this  sonnet  sequence  may  be  considered  as  the  most 
important  poetic  work  Mr.  Roberts  has  so  far  produced.  It  represents 
in  its  highest  form  what  is  most  original  in  him,  that  in  which  his 
experience  is  deeper  than  that  of  other  men.  It  gives  the  fairest  scope, 
too,  for  that  impressionistic  painting  of  nature  in  which  he  is  a  master. 
The  general  tone  of  these  sonnets  is  that  of  a  pensive  melancholy  such 
as  arises  naturally  enough  from  the  contemplation  of  quiet  pastoral 
morns  and  eves.  Grey  Corot-like  pictures  they  mostly  are,  often  a 
little  huddled  and  indistinct  or  indeterminate  in  their  outlines  but 
delicately  tinted  and  suffused  with  a  true  Canadian  atmosphere  of 
light  and  space  and  wide,  pale,  clear  horizons.  It  is  an  atmosphere 
v/hich  keeps  the  colour  tone  of  the  landscape  low,  or  at  least  cool, 
with  nothing  of  tropical  luxuriance  about  it,  the  bloom  of  the  golden- 
rod,  of  the  clover,  the  buttercups  and  the  great  purple  patches  of  fire- 
weed  in  the  woods  being  tempered  by  the  cold  clear  lustre  of  a  northern 
sky  and  the  pale  verdure  of  the  marshes.  The  general  features  of 
nature  in  eastern  Canada  are  faithfully  reflected  in  these  sonnets, 
sometimes  in  exquisite  bits  of  verse.     .     .     . 


Archibald  Lampman 

Larnpiiiaii   is  Canada's  greatest  nature  poet It 

is  to  the  exquisite  felicity  of  Jiis  nature  poems  that  he  ozccs 

his   reputation    both   in    this    country   and   abroad 

Never  :<'as  there  a  more  genuine  lover  of  nature  for  her  own 
sake.  He  zvas  not  under  the  spell  alone  of  her  sublimer 
aspects.  Indeed,  the  mountains  he  had  never  seen,  and  the 
sea  but  rarely,  and  in  later  life.  lie  loved  )uiture  as  Thoreau 
loved  her — /;;  all  her  moods.  The  very  thorns  and  burs  ivere 
dear  to  him,  and  it  zvas  this  gentle  sympathy  zvhich  he  felt 
for  the  unobtrusive  beauties  zvhich  zee  too  commonly  fail  to 
see,  or,  seeing,  fail  to  understand  that  imparted  to  his  poetry 

its  peculiar  charm //  landscape  is,  as  has  been 

said,  'a  state  of  the  soul.'  no  other  Canadia)i  poet  has  so 
adequately    rendered    the   spiritual   significance  zvhich    nature 

gains    from    the    reflection    of    human    emotions 

His  message  to  his  generation  is  the  promise  of  consolation 
zvhich  nature  accords  to  her  dez-otees. — Prof.  Pkijiam  Kdcar. 
Ph.D.,  in  the  'Globe  Mag-azine." 

[61] 


6-  Arcliibald  Lampman 

ARCHIBALD  LAMPMAN,  the  beloved  poet,  was  born 
on  Sunday  morning-,  Nov.  17th,  1861,  in  the  village  of 
Morpeth,  Ont.,  where  his  father,  the  Rev.  Archibald 
Lanipman,  was  rector  of  Trinity  Church.  He  was  of  Dutch 
descent,  and  the  father  of  each  of  his  parents  was  a  United 
Empire    Loyalist. 

Lampman  dedicated  his  third  volume  of  verse.  Alcyone, 
as  follows :  "To  the  memory  of  my  father,  himself  a  poet,  who 
first  instructed  me  in  the  art  of  verse"  ;  and  we  are  told  by 
his  biographer  that  there  had  been  poets  and  scientists  on 
his  mother's  side  of  the  house. 

When  Archibald  had  entered  his  sixth  year,  the  family  left 
Morpeth,  resided  for  a  time  at  Perrytown,  near  Port  Hope, 
and  in  October,  1867,  moved  to  Gore's  Landing,  a  small 
community  on  the  shore  of  Rice  Lake.  Here,  in  the  midst  of 
beautiful  surroundings,  they  dwelt  for  seven  years,  the  most 
impressionable  years  of  the  poet's   life. 

Unfortunately,  in  November,  1868,  the  boy  was  stricken  with 
rheumatic  fever,  induced  by  a  damp  rectory.  He  suffered 
acutely  for  months,  and  in  consequence  was  lame  for  four 
years.  It  was  probably  due  to  this  illness  that  in  youth  and 
in  manhood  he  never  enjoyed  robust  health. 

The  future  poet  was  educated  at  home  until  nearly  nine 
years  of  age.  when  he  entered  the  school  of  a  notable  school- 
master, Air.  F.  W.  Barron,  M.A.,  of  Cambridge,  formerly 
Principal  of  Upper  Canada  College.  Here  he  was  thoroughly 
grounded  in  Latin  and  Greek.  When  thirteen  years  old,  he 
attended  the  Cobourg  Collegiate  Institute  for  a  year,  and  then 
went  to  Trinity  College  School,  Port  Hope,  to  prepare  for 
attendance  at  Trinity  College,  Toronto.  During  his  two  years 
in  Port  Hope,  he  was  noted  as  a  prize-winner.  In  September, 
1879,  he  entered  Trinity  College,  Toronto,  where,  by  the  help 
of  scholarships  won,  he  completed  his  course,  graduating  with 
honours  in  classics  in  1882.  After  graduation,  he  taught  for 
a  few  months  in  the  Orangeville  High  School,  and  then 
accepted  permanent  employment  in  the  Post-Office  Depart- 
ment at  Ottawa. 

In  1887.  Lampman  married  ]\Iaud,  the  youngest  daughter 
of  Dr.  Edward  Playter,  of  Toronto,  and  during  their  twelve 


Archibald  Lam])man  63 


years  of  happiness,  several  children  were  born  to  them. 

In  1888,  our  poet  published  his  first  book  of  verse.  Among 
the  Millet,  which  exteiuled  his  fame  and  encouraged  h;m  to 
greater  effort.  Five  years  later  was  issued  his  second  book, 
Lyrics  of  Earth,  which  won  for  him  additional  laurels.  His 
third,  Alcyone,  was  on  the  press  when  he  was  stricken  by  the 
brief  illness  which  resulted  in  his  death,  two  days  later,  on  the 
10th  of  February,  1899. 

Archibald  Lampman  was  slight  of  form  and  of  middle 
height.  He  was  quiet  and  undemonstrative  in  manner,  but 
had  a  fascinating  personality.  Sincerity  and  high  ideals  char- 
acterized  his   life   and   work. 

In  1900,  his  three  books,  with  additional  poems,  and  with 
an  excellent  memoir  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Duncan  Campbell 
Scott,  were  published  in  one  large  volume  of  nearly  five  hun- 
dred pages, — his  enduring  monument. 

April  in  the  Hills 

TO-DAY  the  world  is  wide  and  fair 
With  sunny  fields  of  lucid  air. 
And  waters  dancing  everywhere; 

The  snow  is  almost  gone; 
The  noon  is  builded  high  with  light, 
And  over  heaven's  liquid  height. 
In  steady  fleets  serene  and  white, 
The  happy  clouds  go  on. 

The  channels  run,  the  bare  earth  steams, 
And  every  hollow  rings  and  gleams 
With  jetting  falls  and  dashing  streams; 

The  rivers  burst  and  fill; 
The  fields  are  full  of  little  lakes. 
And  when  the  romping  wind  awakes 
The  water  ruffles  blue  and  shakes, 

And  the  pines  roar  on  the  hill. 

The  crows  go  by,  a  noisy  throng; 
About  the  meadows  all  day  long. 
The  shore-lark  drops  his  brittle  song: 
And  up  the  leafless  tree 


6i  Archibald  Lampman 

The  nut-hatch  runs,  and  nods,  and  chng's ; 
The  bluebird  dips  with  flashing  wings, 
The  robin  flutes,  the  sparrow  sings, 
And  the  swallows  float  and  flee. 

I  break  the  spirit's  cloudy  bands, 
A  wanderer  in  enchanted  lands, 
I  feel  the  sun  upon  my  hands ; 

And  far  from  care  and  strife 
The  broad  earth  bids  me  forth.     I  rise 
With  lifted  brow  and  upward  eyes. 
I  bathe  my  spirit  in  blue  skies, 

And  taste  the  springs  of  life. 

I  feel  the  tumult  of  new  birth ; 
I  waken  with  the  wakening  earth ; 
I  match  the  bluebird  in  her  mirth ; 

And   wild  with   wind  and   sun, 
A  treasurer  of  immortal  days, 
I  roam  the  glorious  world  with  praise, 
The  hillsides  and  the  woodland  ways, 

Till  earth  and   I   are  one. 

The  Truth 

FRIEND,  though  thy  soul  should  burn  thee,  yet  be  still 
Thoughts  were  not  meant  for  strife,  nor  tongues  for  swords. 
He  that  sees  clear  is  gentlest  of  his  words. 
And  that's  not  truth  that  hath  the  heart  to  kill. 
The  whole  world's  thought  shall  not  one  truth  fulfil. 
Dull  in  our  age,  and  passionate  in  youth, 
No  mind  of  man  hath  found  the  perfect  truth. 
Nor  shalt  thou  find  it;  therefore,  friend,  be  still. 

Watch  and  be  still,  nor  hearken  to  the  fool. 
The   babbler   of   consistency    and    rule : 
Wisest  is  he,  who,  never  quite  secure. 
Changes  his  thoug'hts  for  better  day  by  day : 
To-morrow  some  new  light  will  shine,  be  sure. 
And  thou  shalt  see  thy  thought  another  way. 


Archibald  Lampman 


65 


Morning  on  the  Lievre 

FAR  above  us  where  a  jay 
Screams  his  matins  to  the  day, 
Capped  with  gold  and  amethyst, 
Like  a  vapour  from  the  forge 
Of  a  giant  somewhere  hid. 
Out  of  hearing  of  the  clang 
Of  his  hammer,  skirts  of  mist 
Slowly  up  the  woody  gorge 
Lift  and   hang. 

Softly  as  a  cloud  we  go, 
Sky  above  and  sky  below. 
Down   the   river;   and   the   dip 
Of  the  paddles  scarcely  breaks. 
With   the   little   silvery    drip 
Of   the  water  as   it   shakes 
From  the  blades,  the  crystal  deep 
Of  the  silence  of  the  morn, 
Of   the  forest  yet  asleep; 
And  the  river  reaches  borne 
In  a  mirror,  purple  gray. 
Sheer  away 

To  the  misty  line  of  light. 
Where  the  forest  and  the  stream 
In  the  shadow  meet  and  plight. 
Like  a  dream. 

From  amid  a  stretch  of  reeds, 

Where   the   lazy   river   sucks 

All  the  water  as  it  bleeds 

From  a  little  curling  creek, 

And  the  muskrats  peer  and   sneak 

In   around   the   sunken   wrecks 

Of  a  tree  that  swept  the  skies 

Long  ago. 

On  a  sudden  seven  ducks 

With  a  splashy  rustle  rise, 

Stretching  out  their  seven  necks. 


66 


Archibald  Lampman 


One  before,  and  two  behind, 
And  the  others  all  arow, 
And  as   steady  as  the   wind 
With  a  swivelling  whistle  go, 
Through  the  purple  shadow  led, 
Till  we  only  hear  their  whir 
In  behind  a  rocky  spur. 
Just  ahead. 

Heat 

FROM  plains  that  reel  to  southward,  dim. 
The  road  runs  by  me  white  and  bare ; 
Up  the  steep  hill  it  seems  to  swim 

Beyond,    and   melt    into   the   glare. 
Upward  half-way,  or  it  may  be 

Nearer  the  summit,  slowly  steals 
A    hay-cart,   moving   dustily 
With  idly  clacking  wheels. 

By   his   cart's   side   the   wagoner 

Is  slouching  slowly  at  his  ease, 
Half-hidden  in  the  windless  blur 

Of  white  dust  puffing  to  his  knees. 
This  wagon  on  the  height  above. 

From  sky  to  sky  on  either  hand. 
Is  the  sole  thing  that  seems  to  move 

In  all  the  heat-held  land. 

Beyond  me  in  the  fields  the  sun 

Soaks  in  the  grass  and  hath  his  will; 
I  count  the  marguerites  one  by  one; 

Even  the  buttercups  are  still. 
On  the  brook  yonder  not  a  breath 

Disturbs  the  spider  or  the  midge. 
The  water-bugs  draw  close  beneath 

The  cool  gloom  of  the  bridge. 

Where  the  far  elm-tree  shadows  flood 
Dark  patches  in  the  burning  grass. 

The  cows,  each  with  her  peaceful  cud, 
Lie  waiting  for  the  heat  to  pass. 


Archibald  Lain])man  ^7 


From  somewhere  on  the  slope  near  by 

Into  the  pale  depth  of  the  noon 
A  wandering-  thrush  slides  leisurely 

His  thin  revolving  tune. 

In  intervals  of  dreams  I  hear 

The  cricket  from  the  droughty  ground; 
The  grasshoppers  spin  into  mine  ear 

A  small  innumerable  sound. 
I  lift  mine  eyes  sometimes  to  gaze : 

The  burning  sky-line  blinds  my  sight : 
The  woods  far  off  are  blue  with  haze: 

The  hills  are  drenched  in  light. 

And  yet  to  me  not  this  or  that 

Is  always  sharp  or  always  sweet ; 
In  the  sloped  shadow  of  my  hat 

I  lean  at  rest,  and  drain  the  heat ; 
Nay  more,  I  think  some  blessed  power 

Hath  brought  me  wandering  idly  here: 
In  the  full  furnace  of  this  hour 

My  thoughts  grow  keen  and  clear. 

A  January  Morning 

THE  glittering  roofs  are  still  with  frost ;  each  worn 
Black  chimney  builds  into  the  quiet  sky 
Its  curling  pile  to  crumble  silently. 
Far  out  to  the  westward  on  the  edge  of  morn, 
The  slender  misty  city  towers  up-borne 
Glimmer  faint  rose  against  the  pallid  blue ; 
And  yonder  on  those  northern  hills,  the  hue 
Of  amethyst,  hang  fleeces  dull  as  horn. 

And  here  behind  me  come  the  woodmen's  sleighs 
With  shouts  and  clamorous  squeakings ;  might  and  main 
Up  the  steep  slope  the  horses  stamp  and  strain, 
Urged  on  by  hoarse-tongued  drivers — cheeks  ablaze. 
Iced  beards  and  frozen  eyelids — team  by  team. 
With  frost-fringed  flanks,  and  nostrils  jetting  steam. 


68  Archibald  Lampman 

After  Rain 

FOR  three  whole  days  across  the  sky, 
In  sullen  packs  that  loomed  and  broke, 
With  flying  fringes  dim  as  smoke, 
The  columns  of  the  rain  went  by ; 
At  every  hour  the  wind  awoke ; 

The  darkness  passed  upon  the  plain ; 
The  great  drops  rattled  at  the  pane. 

Now  piped  the  wind,  or  far  aloof 
Fell  to   a  sough   remote  and   dull; 
And   all   night  long  with   rush   and   lull 
The  rain  kept  drumming  on  the   roof : 
I  heard  till  ear  and  sense  were  full 
The  clash  or  silence  of  the  leaves, 
The  gurgle  in  the  creaking  eaves. 

But  when  the  fourth  day  came — at  noon, 
The  darkness  and  the  rain  were  by; 
The  sunward  roofs  were  steaming  dry; 
And  all  the  world  was  flecked  and  strewn 
With   shadows   from   a  fleecy   sky. 
The  haymakers  were  forth  and  gone, 
And  every   rillet  laughed  and   shone. 

Then,  too,  on  me  that  loved  so  well 
The    world,    despairing    in    her   blight. 
Uplifted  with  her  least  delight. 
On  me,  as  on  the  earth,  there  fell 
New   happiness  of  mirth   and   might ; 

I  strode  the  valleys  pied  and  still ; 

I  climbed  upon  the  breezy  hill. 

I  watched  the  gray  hawk  wheel  and  drop, 
Sole   shadow   on   the   shining  world; 
I  saw  the  mountains  clothed  and  curled. 
With   forest  rufiling  to  the  top; 
I   saw  the   river's   length  unfurled, 
Pale  silver  down  the  fruited  plain, 
Grown  great  and  stately  with  the  rain. 


Archibald  Lampman 


69 


Through  miles  of  shadow  and  soft  heat, 
Where   field   and    fallow,    fence   and   tree, 
Were  all  one  world  of  greenery, 
I  heard  the  robin   ringing  sweet, 
The  sparrow   piping  silverly, 

The  thrushes  at  the  forest's  hem ; 

And  as  I  went  I  sang  with  them. 

Winter  Evening 

TO-NIGHT  the  very  horses  springing  by 
Toss  gold  from  whitened  nostrils.     In  a  dream 
The  streets  that  narrow  to  the  westward  gleam 
Like  rows  of  golden  palaces ;  and  high 
From  all  the  crowded  chimneys  tower  and  die 
A  thousand  aureoles.     Down  in  the  west 
The  brimming  plains  beneath  the  sunset  rest, 
One  burning  sea  of  gold.     Soon,  soon  shall  fly 

The  glorious  vision,  and  the  hours  shall  feel 
A  mightier  master;  soon  from  height  to  height, 
With  silence  and  the  sharp  unpitying  stars, 
Stern  creeping  frosts,  and  winds  that  touch  like  steel, 
Out  of  the  depth  beyond  the  eastern  bars, 
Glittering  and  still  shall  come  the  awful  night. 

In  March 

THE  sun  falls  warm:  the  southern  winds  awake: 
The  air  seethes  upwards  with  a  steamy  shiver: 
Each  dip  of  the  road  is  now  a  crystal  lake. 
And  every   rut  a  little  dancing   river. 
Through  great  soft  clouds  that  sunder  overhead 
The  deep  sky  breaks  as  pearly  blue  as  summer: 
Out  of  a  cleft  beside  the  river's  bed 
Flaps  the  black  crow,  the  first  demure  newcomer. 

The  last  seared  drifts  are  eating  fast  away 
\\'ith  glassy  tinkle  into  glittering  laces: 
Dogs  lie  asleep,  and  little  children  play 
With  tops  and  marbles  in  the  sun-bare  places ; 
And  I  that  stroll  with  many  a  thoughtful  pause 
Almost  forget  that  winter  ever  was. 


70  Archibald  Lampman 

The  Railway  Station 

THE  darkness  brings  no  quiet  here,  the  light 
No  waking:  ever  on  my  blinded  brain 
The  flare  of  lights,  the  rush,  and  cry,  and  strain, 
The  engine's  scream,  the  hiss  and  thunder  smite : 
I  see  the  hurrying  crowds,  the  clasp,  the  flight, 
Faces  that  touch,  eyes  that  are  dim  with  pain. 
I  see  the  hoarse  wheels  turn,  and  the  great  train 
Move  labouring  out  into  the  bourneless  night. 

So  many  souls  within  its  dim  recesses. 

So  many  bright,  so  many  mournful  eyes : 

Mine  eyes  that  watch  grow  fixed  with  dreams  and  guesses; 

What  threads  of  life,  what  hidden  histories, 

What  sweet  or  passionate  dreams  and  dark  distresses, 

What  unknown  thoughts,  what  various  agonies ! 

War 

BY  the  Nile,  the  sacred  river, 
I  can  see  the  captive  hordes, 
Strain  beneath  the  lash  and  quiver 

At,  the  long  papyrus  cords. 
While  in  granite   rapt  and  solemn. 
Rising  over  roof  and  column, 
Amen-hotep  dreams,  or  Ramses, 
Lord   of   Lords. 

I   can  hear  the   trumpets   waken 

For  a  victory  old  and  far — 
Carchemish  or  Kadesh  taken — 

I   can  see  the  conqueror's  car 
Bearing  down  some  Hittite  valley. 
Where  the  bowmen  break  and  sally, 

Sargina  or  Esarhaddon, 
Grim   with   war ! 

From  the  mountain  streams  that  sweeten 

Indus,  to  the  Spanish  foam, 
I  can  feel  the  broad  earth  beaten 

By  the  serried  tramp  of  Rome; 


Archibald  Lampman  71 

Through  whatever  foes  environ 
Onward  with  the  might  of  iron — 
Veni,  vidi ;  veni  vici — 
Crashing  home ! 

I  can  see  the  kings  grow  pallid 

With  astonished  fear  and  hate, 
As  the  hosts  of  Amr  or  Khaled 

On    their   cities    fall    like   fate; 
Like  the  heat-wind  from  its  prison 
In  the  desert  burst  and  risen — 

La   ilaha  illah  'llahu — 
God  is  great! 

I  can  hear  the  iron  rattle, 

I  can  see  the  arrows  sting 
In   some   far-off   northern  battle, 

Where  the  long  swords  sweep  and  swing; 
I  can  hear  the  scalds  declaiming, 
I  can  see  their  eyeballs  flaming. 

Gathered  in  a  frenzied  circle 
Round  the  king. 

I  can  hear  the  horn  of  Uri 

Roaring  in  the  hills  enorm ; 
Kindled  at  its  brazen  fury, 

I  can  see  the  clansmen  form ; 
In  the  dawn  in  misty  masses. 
Pouring  from  the  silent  passes 

Over  Granson  or   Morgarten 
Like  the  storm. 

On  the  lurid  anvil   ringing 

To   some   slow    fantastic   plan, 
I  can  hear  the  sword-smith  singing 

In  the  heart  of  old  Japan — 
Till  the  cunning  blade  grows  tragic 
With  his  malice  and  his  magic — 

Tenka  tairan!   Tenka  tairan ! 
War   to    man ! 

Where  a  northern  river  charges 
From  a  wild  and  moonlit  glade. 


72  Archibald  Lampman 


From  the  murky   forest  marges, 

Round  a  broken  palisade, 
I  can  see  the  red  men  leaping, 
See  the  sword  of  Daulac  sweeping, 

And  the  ghostly  forms  of  heroes 
Fall  and   fade. 

I  can  feel  the  modern  thunder 

Of  the  cannon  beat  and  blaze, 
When  the  lines  of  men  go  under 

On  your  proudest  battle-days ; 
Through  the  roar  I  hear  the  lifting 
Of  the  bloody  chorus  drifting  ; 

Round  the  burning  mill  at  Valmy — 
Marseillaise ! 

I  can  see  the  ocean  rippled 

With  the  driving  shot  like  rain. 
While  the  hulls  are  crushed  and  crippled, 

And  the  guns  are  piled  with  slain; 
O'er  the  blackened  broad  sea-meadow 
Drifts  a  tall  and  titan  shadow, 

And  the  cannon  of  Trafalgar 
Startle  Spain. 

Still  the  tides  of  fight  are  booming, 

And  the  barren  blood  is  spilt; 
Still  the  banners  are  up-looming, 

And  the  hands  are  on  the  hilt ; 
But  the  old  world  waxes  wiser. 
From  behind  the  bolted  visor 

It  descries  at  last  the  horror 
And  the  guilt. 

Yet  the  eyes  are  dim,  nor  wholly 

Open  to  the  golden  gleam. 
And  the  brute  surrenders  slowly 

To  the  godhead  and  the  dream. 
From  his  cage  of  bar  and  girder. 
Still  at  moments  mad  with  murder, 

Leaps  the  tiger,  and  his  demon 
Rules  supreme. 


Archibald  Lampraan 


73 


One  more  war  with  fire  and  famine 

Gathers — I  can  hear  its  cries — 
And  the  years  of  might  and  Mammon 

Perish  in  a  world's  demise; 
When  the  strength  of  man  is  shattered, 
And  the  powers  of  earth  are  scattered, 

From  beneath  the  ghastly  ruin 
Peace  shall  rise ! 

April  Night 

HOW  deep  the  April  night  is  in  its  noon, 
The  hopeful,  solemn,  many-murmured  night  I 
The  earth  lies  hushed  with  expectation;  bright 
Above  the  world's  dark  border  burns  the  moon, 
Yellow  and   large ;   from    forest   floorways,   strewn 
With  flowers,  and  fields  that  tingle  with  new  birth, 
The  moist  smell  of  the  unimprisoned  earth 
Come  up,  a  sigh,  a  haunting  promise.     Soon, 

Ah,  soon,  the  teeming  triumph!     At  my  feet 
The  river  with  its  stately  sweep  and  wheel 
Moves  on  slow-motioned,  luminous,  gray  like  steel. 
From  fields  far  off  whose  watery  hollows  gleam. 
Aye  with  blown  throats  that  make  the  long  hours  sweet, 
The  sleepless  toads  are  murmuring  in  their  dreams. 

The  Largest  Life 
I 

I  LIE  upon  my  bed  and  hear  and  see. 
The  moon  is  rising  through  the  glistening  trees; 
And  momently  a  gTeat  and  sombre  breeze, 
With  a  vast  voice  returning  fitfully. 
Comes  like  a  deep-toned  grief,  and  stirs  in  me. 
Somehow,  by  some  inexplicable  art, 
A  sense  of  my  soul's  strangeness,  and  its  part 
In  the  dark  march  of  human  destiny. 
What  am  I,  then,  and  what  are  they  that  pass 
Yonder,  and  love  and  laugh,  and  mourn  and  weep? 
What  shall  they  know  of  me.  or  I,  alas! 


"4  Archibald  Lainpman 

Of  them?     Little.     At  times,  as  if  from  sleep, 
We  waken  to  this  yearning  passionate  mood. 
And  tremble  at  our  spiritual  solitude. 

II 
Nay,  never  once  to  feel  we  are  alone, 
While  the  great  human  heart  around  us  lies: 
To  make  the  smile  on  other  lips  our  own, 
To  live  upon  the  light  in  others'  eyes : 
To  breathe  without  a  doubt  the  limped  air 
Of  that  most  perfect  love  that  knows  no  pain: 
To  say — I   love  you — only,  and  not  care 
Whether  the  love  come  back  to  us  again : 
Divinest  self-forgetfulness,  at  first 
A  task,  and  then  a  tonic,  then  a  need; 
To  greet  with  open  hands  the  best  and  worst. 
And  only  for  another's  wound  to  bleed : 
This  is  to  see  the  beauty  that  God  meant, 
Wrapped  round  with  life,  ineffably  content. 

Ill 

There  is  a  beauty  at  the  goal  of  life, 
A  beauty  growing  since  the  world  began, 
Through  every  age  and  race,  through  lapse  and  strife 
Till  the  great  human  soul  complete  her  span. 
Beneath  the  waves  of  storm  that  lash  and  burn, 
The  currents  of  blind  passion  that  appall, 
To  listen  and  keep  watch  till  we  discern 
The  tide  of  sovereign  truth  that  guides  it  all ; 
So  to  address  our  spirits  to  the  height, 
And  so  attune  them  to  the  valiant  whole, 
That  the  great  light  be  clearer  for  our  light, 
And  the  great  soul  the  stronger  for  our  soul : 
To  have  done  this  is  to  have  lived,  though  fame 
Remember   us   with   no   familiar   name. 


Frederick  George  Scott 

Frederick  Geori:;e  Scott's  poetry  has  folloiced  three  or  four 
■ivell-dcfined  lines  of  thou;^ht.  lie  has  reflected  in  turn  the 
academic  subjects  of  a  library,  the  majesty  of  nature,  the 
tender  love  of  his  fcllozvmen.  and-  the  vision  and  enthusiasm 
of  an  Imperialist.  His  zeork  in  any  one  field  zcould  attract 
attention:  taken  in  mass  it  niarks  him  as  a  sturdy,  develop- 
in<^  interpreter  of  his  country  and  of  his  tijiies.  Whether 
he  zvrites  of  'Samsoji'  and  'Thor.'  of  the  'Little  River,'  or 
whether  he  expands  his  soul  in  a  'Hymn  of  Empire,'  his  lines 
are  niarked  bv  imai:;ination.  inelody.  sympathy  and  often  :eist- 
fulness.  Livijii:;  on  the  edge  of  the  shadow-flecked  I.auren- 
tians,  lie  constantly  draws  inspiration  from  them,  and  more 
than  any  other  luts  )nade  articulate  their  lonely  beauties.  1 1  is 
pastoral  relations  Zi'ith  a  city  flock  i:,ii'e  colour  and  tenderness 
to  not  a  few  of  his  poems  of  human  relationships.  His  ar- 
de)it  Uk'c  of  the  Empire  gives  rein  to  his  restless,  roi'ing 
thoughts  and  has  finally  drawn  him  to  the  battle-front  as  a 
chaplain.     .     . — M.   O.    llAMMoNn.  of   'The  Globe.'   Toronto. 

[751 


Frederick   (reorae   Scott 


FREDERICK  GEORGE  SCOTT,  "The  Poet  of  the  Laur- 
entians,"  has  this  supreme  gift  as  a  writer :  the  art  of 
expressing-  noble,  beautiful  and  often  profound  thoughts, 
in  simple,  appropriate  words  which  all  who  read  can  under- 
stand.    His  poems  uplift  the  spirit  and  enrich  the  heart. 

He  was  born  in  Alontreal,  April  7th.  1861,  son  of  the  late 
Dr.  William  Edward  Scott,  for  nearly  forty  years  Professor 
of  Anatomy,  in  ]\IcGill  University,  and  Elizabeth  Sproston. 
Both  parents  were  of  English  birth. 

He  was  educated  at  the  ^lontreal  High  School,  at  Bishop's 
College.  Lennoxville  (B.A.,  1881;  M.A.,  1884;  D.C.L.,  hon- 
orary, 1902),  and  at  King's  College,  London,  England. 

Ordained  deacon,  1884,  and  priest,  1886,  his  subsequent  cler- 
ical career  is  indicated  by  the  following :  curate  at  Coggeshall, 
Essex,  England,  1886-7;  Rector  of  Drummondville,  P.O., 
1887-96;  curate,  St.  Mathews,  Quebec.  1896-9,  and  then  Rec- 
tor; Canon,  Holy  Trinity  Cathedral,  Quebec,  1906,  and  ever 
since ;  Provincial  Superior,  Confraternity  of  the  Blessed  Sac- 
rament. 

As  an  author,  Canon  Scott  has  won  distinction  by  these 
publications:  The  Soul's  Quest,  and  Other  Poems,  1888;  Elton 
Haslezvood,  1892;  My  Lattice,  and  Other  Poems,  1894  \  The 
Unnamed  Lake,  and  Other  Poems,  1897 ;  Poems  Old  and  New, 
1900;  The  Hymn  of  Empire,  and  Other  Poems,  1906;  The 
Key  of  Life,  a  Mystery  Play,   1907;  Collected  Poems,   1910. 

At  a  special  meeting  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Canada, — of 
which  he  was  elected  a  Fellow  in  1900, — held  during  the 
Quebec  Tercentenary,  he  read  an  ode,  Canada,  written  for  the 
occasion. 

His  marriage  to  Amy,  eldest  daughter  of  the  late  George 
Brooks,  of  Barnet,  England,  took  place  in  April,  1887.  Of  this 
union  there  are  six  children  living,  five  boys  and  one  girl. 
The  two  eldest  sons  are  practising  lawyers  in  Montreal. 

This  hero-poet  at  the  Front — he  is  Major  and  Senior  Chap- 
lain of  the  1st  Canadian  Division — is  more  than  an  eminent 
writer  of  verse  and  an  im])rcssive  preacher,  he  is  as  the  Mon- 
treal Star  has  said : 

A  man  of  libera!  culture  and  wide  sympathies,  a  patriot  whose 
heart  has  thrilled  with  the  truth  of  the  larger  life,  political,  social  and 
religious,  a  man  of  strong  courage  born  of  reverent  unquestioning  faith. 


Frederick  George  Scott  77 

The  Feud 

I  HEAR  a  cry  from  the  Sansard  cave, 
O  mother,  will  no  one  hearken? 
A  cry  of  the  lost,  will  no  one  save? 
A  cry  of  the  dead,  thoug-h  the  oceans  rave, 
And  the  scream  of  a  giill  as  he  wheels  o'er  a  grave, 
While  the  shadows  darken  and  darken.' 

'Oh,  hush  thee,  child,  for  the  night  is  wet. 

And  the  cloud-caves  split  asunder, 
With  lightning  in  a  jagged  fret, 
Like  the  gleam  of  a  salmon  in  the  net, 
When  the  rocks  are  rich  in  the  red  sunset. 

And  the  stream  rolls  down  in  thunder.' 

'Mother,  O  mother,  a  pain  at  my  heart, 

A  pang  like  the  pang  of  dying.' 
'Oh,  hush  thee,  child,  for  the  wild  birds  dart 
Up  and  down,  and  close  and  part, 
Wheeling  round  where  the  black  cliffs  start. 

And  the  foam  at  their  feet  is  flying.' 

'O  mother,  a  strife  like  the  black  clouds'  strife, 

And  a  peace  that  cometh  after.' 
'Hush,  child,  for  peace  is  the  end  of  life, 
And  the  heart  of  a  maiden  finds  peace  as  a  wife. 
But  the  sky  and  the  cliflfs  and  the  ocean  are  rife 

With  the  storm  and  thunder's  laughter.' 

'Come  in,  my  sons,  come  in  and  rest. 

For  the  shadows  darken  and  darken. 
And  your  sister  is  pale  as  the  white  swan's  breast. 
And  her  eyes  are  fixed  and  her  hps  are  pressed 
In  the  death  of  a  nanie  ye  might  have  guessed, 

Had  ye  twain  been  here  to  hearken.' 

'Hush,  mother,  a  corpse  lies  on  the  sand. 

And  the  spray  is  round  it  driven. 
It  lies  on  its  face,  and  one  white  hand 
Points  through  the  mist  on  the  belt  of  strand 
To  where  the  clifTs  of  Sansard  stand. 

And  the  ocean's  strength  is  riven.' 


78  Frederick  George  Scott 


'Was  it  God,  my  sons,  who  laid  him  there? 

Or  the  sea  that  left  him  sleeping?' 
'Nay,  mother,  our  dirks  where  his  heart  was  bare, 
As  swift  as  the  rain  through  the  teeth  of  the  air; 
And  the  foam-fingers  play  in  the  Saxon's  hair. 

While  the  tides  are  round  him  creeping.' 

'Oh,  curses  on  you,  hand  and  head. 

Like  the  rains  in  this  wild  weather. 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  swift  and  dread, 
Your  sister's   face  is  cold  and  dead, 
Ye  may  not  part  whom  God  would  wed 
And  love  hath  knit  together.' 

Samson 

PLUNGED  in  night,  I  sit  alone 
Eyeless  on  this  dungeon  stone. 
Naked,  shaggy,  and  unkempt. 
Dreaming  dreams  no  soul  hath  dreamt. 

Rats  and  vermin  round  my  feet 
Play  unharmed,  companions  sweet; 
Spiders  weave  me  overhead 
Silken  curtains  for  my  bed. 

Day  by  day  the  mould  I   smell 
Of  this  fung'us-blistered  cell; 
Nightly  in  my  haunted  sleep 
O'er  my  face  the  lizards  creep. 

Gyves  of  iron  scrape  and  burn 
Wrists  and  ankles  when  I  turn. 
And  my  collared  neck  is  raw 
With  the  teeth  of  brass  that  gnaw. 

God  of  Israel,  canst  Thou  see 
All  my  fierce  captivity? 
Do  Thy  sinews  feel  my  pains? 
Hearest  Thou  the  clanking  chains  ? 

Thou  who  madest  me  so  fair. 
Strong  and  buoyant  as  the  air. 
Tall  and  noble  as  a  tree, 
With  the  passions  of  the  sea. 


Fredorifk   Oeoi'oo  Scott  79 

Swift  as  horse  upon  my  feet, 
Fierce  as  lion  in  my  heat, 
Rending.   Hke  a  wisj)  of   hay, 
All  that  dared  withstand  my  way. 

Canst  Thou  see  me  through  the  gloom 
Of   this    subterranean    tomb, — 
Blinded  tiger  in  his  den, 
Once  the  lord  and  prince  of  men  ? 

Clay  was  I ;  the  potter  Thou 

With  Thy  thumb-nail  smooth'dst  my  brow, 

Roll'dst  the  spittle-moistened  sands 

Into  limbs  between  Thy  hands. 

Thou  didst  pour  into  my  blood 
Fury  of  the  fire  and  flood, 
And  upon  the  boundless  skies 
Thou  didst  first  unclose  my  eyes. 

And  my  breath  of  life  was  flame, 
God-like  from  the  source  it  came. 
Whirling  round  like  furious  wind. 
Thoughts  upgathered  in  the  mind. 

Strong  Thou  mad'st  me,  till  at  length 
All  my  weakness  was  my  strength ; 
Tortured  am  I,  blind  and  wrecked. 
For  a  faulty  architect. 

From  the  woman  at  my  side, 
Was  I  woman-like  to  hide 
What  she  asked  me,  as  if  fear 
Could  my  iron  heart  come  near? 

Nay,  I  scorned  and  scorn  again 
Cowards  who  their  tongues  restrain ; 
Cared  I  no  more  for  Thy  laws 
Than  a  wind  of  scattered  straws. 

When  the  earth  quaked  at  my  name 
And  my  blood  was  all  aflame. 
Wlio  was   I  to  lie.  and  cheat 
Her  who  clung  about  my  feet  ? 


80  Frederick  George  Scott 


From  Thy  open  nostrils  blow 
Wind  and  tempest,  rain  and  snow ; 
Dost  Thou  curse  them  on  their  course, 
For  the  fury  of  their  force? 

Tortured   am    I,    wracked   and   bowed, 
But  the  soul  within  is  proud; 
Dungeon  fetters  cannot  still 
Forces  of  the  tameless  will. 

Israel's  God,  come  down  and  see 
All  my  fierce  captivity; 
Let  Thy  sinews  feel  my  pains, 
With  Thy  fingers  lift  my  chains, 

Then,  with  thunder  loud  and  wild. 
Comfort  Thou  Thy  rebel  child, 
And  with  lightning  split  in  twain 
Loveless  heart  and  sig'htless  brain. 

Give  me  splendour  in  my  death — 
Not   this    sickening   dungeon   breath, 
Creeping  down  my  blood  like  slime. 
Till  it  wastes  me  in  my  prime. 

Give  me  back  for  one  blind  hour, 
Half  my  former  rage  and  power. 
And  some  giant  crisis  send. 
Meet  to  prove  a  hero's  end. 

Then,  O  God,  Thy  mercy  show — 
Crush  him  in  the  overthrow 
At  whose  life  they  scorn  and  point. 
By  its  greatness  out  of  joint. 

Dawn 

THE  immortal  spirit  hath  no  bars 
To  circumscribe  its   dwelling  place; 
My  soul  hath  pastured  with  the  stars 
Upon  the  meadow-lands  of  space. 

My  mind  and  ear  at  times  have  caught, 
From  realms  beyond  our  mortal  reach, 


Fredorick   rioorGfo  Scott  81 

The  utterance  of  Eternal  Thought 
Of  which  all  nature  is  the  speech. 

And  high  above  the  seas  and  lands, 

On  peaks  just  tipped  with  morning  light, 

My  dauntless  spirit  mutely  stands 

With  eagle  wings  outspread  for  flight. 

The  River 

WHY    hurry,    little    river, 
Why  hurry  to  the  sea? 
There  is  nothing  there  to  do 
But  to  sink  into  the  blue 

And  all  forgotten  be. 
There  is  nothing  on  that  shore 
But  the  tides  for  evermore, 
And  the  faint  and  far-oflf  line 
Where  the  winds  across  the  brine 
For  ever,  ever  roam 
And  never  find  a  home. 

Why  hurry,  little  river. 

From  the  mountains  and  the  mead. 
Where   the   graceful   elms   are    sleeping 

And  the  quiet  cattle  feed  ? 
The  loving  shadows  cool 
The  deep  and  restful  pool ; 
And  every  tribute  stream 
Brings  its  own  sweet  woodland  dream 
Of  the  mighty  woods  that  sleep 
Where  the  sighs  of  earth  are  deep, 
And  the  silent  skies  look  down 
On  the  savage  mountain's  frown. 

Oh,  linger,  little  river, 

Your  banks  are  all  so  fair, 
Each  morning  is  a  hymn  of  praise, 

Each  evening  is  a  prayer. 
All  day  the  sunbeams  glitter 

On  your  shallows  and  your  bars, 
And  at  night  the  dear  God  stills  you 
With  the  music  of  the  stars. 


82  Frederick  George  Scott 


The  Storm 

OGRIP  the  earth,  ye  forest  trees, 
Grip   well   the   earth   to-night, 
The  Storm-God  rides  across  the  seas 
To  greet  the  morning  light. 

All  clouds  that  wander  through  the  skies 

Are  tangled  in  his  net, 
The  frightened  stars  have  shut  their  eyes, 

The  breakers  fume  and  fret. 

The  birds  that  cheer  the  woods  all  day 

Now  tremble  in  their  nests, 
The  giant  branches  round  them  sway, 

The  wild  wind  never  rests. 

The  squirrel  and  the  cunning  fox 

Have  hurried  to  their  holes. 
Far  ofif,  like  distant  earthquake  shocks, 

The  muffled  thunder  rolls. 

In  scores  of  hidden  woodland  dells. 
Where   no  rough  winds  can   harm, 

The  timid  wild-flowers  toss  their  bells 
In  reasonless  alarm. 

Only  the  mountains  rear  their  forms. 

Silent  and  grim  and  bold ; 
To  them  the  voices  of  the  storms 

Are  as  a  tale  re-told. 

They  saw  the  stars  in  heaven  hung, 
They  heard  the  great  Sea's  birth, 

They  know  the  ancient  pain  that  wrung 
The  entrails  of  the  Earth. 

Sprung  from  great  Nature's  royal  lines, 
They  share  her  deep  repose, — 

Their  rugged  shoulders  robed  in  pines, 
Their  foreheads  crowned  with  snows. 

But  now  there  comes  a  lightning  flash, 

And  now  on  hill  and  plain 
The  charging  clouds  in  fury  dash. 

And  blind  the  world  with  rain. 


Frederick    (ieoi-ov   Scott  ^3 

In  the  Winter  Woods 

WliVTER  forests  mutely  standing 
Naked  on  your  bed  of  snow, 
Wide  your  knotted  arms  expanding- 

To  the  biting  winds  that  blow, 
Nought  ye  heed  of  storm  or  stress, 
Stubborn,  silent,  passionless. 

Buried  is  each  woodland  treasure, 

Gone  the  leaves  and  mossy  rills, 
Gone  the  birds  that  filled  with  pleasure 

All  the  valleys  and  the  hills ; 
Ye  alone  of  all  that  host 
Stand  like  soldiers  at  your  post. 

Grand  old  trees,  the  words  ye  mutter. 

Nodding  in  the  frosty  wind. 
Wake  some  thoughts  I  cannot  utter, 

But  which  haunt  the  heart  and  mind. 
With  a  meaning,  strange  and  deep, 
As  of  visions  seen  in  sleep. 

Something  in  my  inmost  thinking 

Tells  me  I  am  one  with  you, 
For  a  subtle  bond  is  linking 

Nature's  offspring  through  and  through, 
And  your  spirit  like  a  flood 
Stirs   the   pulses  of  my  blood. 

Wliile  I  linger  here  and  listen 

To  the  crackling  boughs  above. 
Hung  with  icicles  that  glisten 

As  if  kindling  into  love. 
Human  heart  and  soul  unite 
With  your  majesty  and  might. 

Horizontal,   rich  with  glory. 

Through  the  boughs  the  red  sun's  rays 
Clothe  you  as  some  grand  life-story 

Robes  an  aged  man  with  praise. 
When,  before  his  setting  sun. 
Men  recount  what  he  has  done. 


84  Frederick  George  Scott 

But  the  light  is  swiftly  fading, 

And  the  wind  is  icy  cold, 
And  a  mist  the  moon  is  shading, 

PalHd  in  the  western  gold; 
In  the  night-winds  still  ye  nod. 
Sentinels  of  Nature's  God. 

Now  with  lag'gard  steps  returning 
To  the  world  from  whence  I  came. 

Leave  I  all  the  great  West  burning 
With  the  day  that  died  in  flame, 

And  the  stars,  with  silver  ray, 

Light  me  on  my  homeward  way. 

The  Unnamed  Lake 

IT  sleeps  among  the  thousand  hills 
Where   no  man   ever  trod, 
And  only  nature's  music  fills 
The  silences  of  God. 

Great  mountains  tower  above  its  shore, 
Green  rushes  fringe  its  brim, 
t  And  o'er  its  breast  for  evermore 

The  wanton  breezes  skim. 

Dark  clouds  that  intercept  the  sun 
Go  there  in  Spring  to  weep. 

And  there,  when  Autumn  days  are  done, 
White  mists  lie  down  to  sleep. 

Sunrise  and  sunset  crown  with  gold 
The  pinks  of  ageless  stone, 

Her  winds  have  thundered  from  of  old 
And  storms  have  set  their  throne. 

No  echoes  of  the  world  afar 

Disturb  it  night  or  day, 
The  sun  and  shadow,  moon  and  star 

Pass  and  repass  for  aye. 

'Twas  in  the  grey  of  early  dawn. 
When  first  the  lake  we  spied, 

And  fragments  of  a  cloud  were  drawn 
Half  down  the  mountain  side. 


B 


Froflorick   rjoorfi^o  Seott  85 

Along  the  shore  a  heron  flew, 

And  from  a  speck  on  high. 
That  hovered  in  the  deei)cning  blue, 

We  heard  the  fish-hawk's  cry. 

Among  the  cloud-capt  sohtudes. 

No  sound  the  silence  broke, 
Save  when,  in  whispers  down  the  woods, 

The  guardian  mountains  spoke. 

Through  tangled  brush  and  dewy  brake. 

Returning   whence    we   came, 
We  passed  in  silence,  and  the  lake 

We  left  without  a  name. 

The  Burden  of  Time 

EFORE  the  seas  and  mountains  were  brought  forth, 
I  reigned.     I  hung  the  universe  in  space, 
I  capped  earth's  poles  with  ice  to  South  and  Xorth, 
And  set  the  moving  tides  their  bounds  and  place. 

I  smoothed  the  granite  mountains  with  my  hand, 

My  fingers  gave  the  continents  their  form ; 
I  rent  the  heavens  and  loosed  upon  the  land 

The  fury  of  the  whirlwind  and  the  storm. 

I  stretched  the  dark  sea  like  a  nether  sky 

Fronting  the  stars  between  the  ice-clad  zones ; 

I  gave  the  deep  his  thunder ;  the  Most  High 

Knows   well  the  voice  that  shakes   His   mountain   thrones. 

I  trod  the  ocean  caverns  black  as  night. 

And  silent  as  the  bounds  of  outer  space, 
And  where  great  peaks  rose  darkly  towards  the  light 

I  planted  life  to  root  and  grow  apace. 

Then  through  a  stillness  deeper  than  the  grave's, 

The  coral  spires  rose  slowly  one  by  one. 
Until  the  white  shafts  pierced  the  upper  waves 

And  shone  like  silver  in  the  tropic  sun. 

I  ploughed  with  glaciers  down  the  mountain  glen, 
i\nd  graved  the  iron  shore  with  stream  and  tide ; 


^6  Frederick  George  Scott 

I  gave  the  bird  her  nest,  the  Hon  his  den, 
The  snake  long  jimg'le-grass  wherein  to  hide. 

In  lonely  gorge  and  over  hill  and  plain, 
I  sowed  the  giant  forests  of  the  world ; 

The  great  earth  like  a  human  heart  in  pain 
Has  quivered  with  the  meteors  I  have  hurled. 

I  plunged  whole  continents  beneath  the  deep, 
And  left  them  sepulchred  a  million  years ; 

I  called,  and  lo,  the  drowned  lands  rose  from  sleep, 
Sundering  the  waters  of  the  hemispheres. 

I  am  the  lord  and  arbiter  of  man — 

I  hold  and  crush  between  my  finger-tips 

Wild  hordes  that  drive  the  desert  caravan, 
Great  nations  that  go  down  to  sea  in  ships. 

In  sovereign  scorn  I  tread  the  races  down. 

As  each  its  puny  destiny  fulfils, 
On  plain  and  island,  or  where  huge  cliffs  frown. 

Wrapt  in  the  deep  thought  of  the  ancient  hills. 

The  wild  sea  searches  vainly  round  the  land 
For  those  proud  fleets  my  arm  has  swept  away ; 

Vainly  the  wind  along  the  desert  sand 

Calls  the  great  names  of  kings  who  once  held  sway. 

Yea,  Nineveh  and  Babylon  the  great 

Are  fallen — like  ripe  ears  at  harvest-tide ; 

I  set  my  heel  upon  their  pomp  and  state, 

The  people's  serfdom  and  the  monarch's  pride. 

One  doom  waits  all — art,  speech,  law,  gods,  and  men, 
Forests  and  mountains,  stars  and  shining  sun, — 

The  hand  that  made  them  shall  unmake  again, 
I  curse  them  and  they  wither  one  by  one. 

Waste  altars,  tombs,  dead  cities  where  men  trod. 
Shall  roll  throug'h  space  upon  the  darkened  globe, 

Till  I  myself  be  overthrown,  and  God 
Cast  off  creation  like  an  outworn  robe. 


Wilfred  Campbell 

It  Is  just  because  Campbell  has  alivays  made  uuvi  a)id  the 
larger,  greater  interests  of  man,  the  prevailing  note  of  his 
poetic  tvork,  and  is  doing  it  more  than  ever  before,  that  he  is 

to  be  placed  i)i  the  very  front  of  our  Canadian  singers 

The  majesty  and  grandeur  of  nature  appeals  to  the  poet,  but 
there  is  always  attached  thereto  the  larger  human  interest.  .  .  . 
His  exquisite  nature  poems  are  as  z^'orthy  of  being  read  as  any 

that  U'ordszi'orthzcrote 'The  Bereavement  of  the  Fields.' 

the  beautiful  tribute  to  the  memory  of  Archibald  Lampman. 
worthily  takes  its  place  beside  the  other  greater  elegies  of  the 
E)iglisli  language.    In  technique  and  melody  it  ranks  very  high 

77/r  well  known  poem,  'The  Mother,'  has  justly  been 

praised  as  one  of  the  finest  poems  in  all  English  literaturr. 
— Prof.   L.   K.  Horning,  M.A..  Ph.D.,  in  'Globe  Magazine." 

His  poetry  not  only  touches  the  deepest  thought  and  feeling 
of  humanity,  but  goes  into  the  sacred  and  tragic  places,  where 
the  great  dramatic  niomoits  of  life  are  k)iown. — 'Pc^ronto 
"Saturday  Nig-ht.' 

[871 


88  Wilfred  Campbell 

WILFRED  CAMPBELL,  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
of  our  native  writers,  is  a  poet  and  novehst  by  in- 
herited right.  Through  his  father,  the  Rev.  Thomas 
Swaniston  Campbell,  a  descendant  of  the  first  Lord  Campbell, 
of  the  House  of  Argyll,  he  is  of  the  same  stock  as  the  poet, 
Thomas  Campbell,  and  as  the  novelist,  Henry  Fielding. 

His  maternal  grandfather  was  the  late  Major  Francis 
Wrig'ht  of  the  Royal  Horse  Guards. 

He  was  born  in  Berlin,  Ontario,  June  1st,  1861,  and  was 
educated  at  the  local  High  School,  at  University  College,  Tor- 
onto, and  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts.  The  honorary  de- 
gree, LL.D.,  was  conferred  on  him,  in  1906,  by  the  University 
of  Aberdeen. 

He  was  married  in  1884  to  Mary  Louisa,  only  child  of  the 
late  David   Mark  Dibble,   M.D.,  of  Woodstock,  Ontario. 

Dr.  Campbell  was  ordained  a  clergyman  of  the  Episcopal 
Church  in  1885,  and  undertook  parish  work  in  New  England. 
Three  years  later  he  returned  to  Canada  and  became  Rector 
of  St.  Stephen,  New  Brunswick.  In  1891,  he  retired  from  the 
ministry  to  devote  his  life  chiefly  to  literary  effort,  and  entered 
the  civil  service  at  Ottawa.  For  some  years  he  has  been 
associated  with  Dr.  Doughty  in  the  Dominion  Archives  Bureau. 

In  1905,  the  best  of  Campbell's  lyrics  and  sonnets  were 
published  in  a  substantial  volume  entitled,  The  Collected  Poems 
of  Wilfred  Campbell.  At  the  same  time  appeared  The  Col- 
lected Poems  of  Isabella  Valancy  Crazvford,  and  such  a  notable 
coincidence  aroused  much  interest  in  Canadian  literary  circles. 

There  is  another  coincidence  of  singular  interest  pertaining 
to  these  poets :  each  has  written  a  remarkable  poem  on  an 
identical  theme,- —  the  soul  of  a  mother  returning  from  the 
grave  for  her  child'. 

In  1908,  Campbell's  Poetical  Tragedies:  "Mordred,"  "Dau- 
lac,"  "Morning"  and  "Hildebrand,"  were  issued  in  a  hand- 
some volume,  and  his  Sagas  of  Vaster  Britain,  a  notable 
selection  of  his  verse,  in   1914. 

The  historical  novels  of  this  author.  Ian  of  the  Or  cades 
(1906)  and  A  Beautiful  Rebel  (1909),  should  be  more  widely 
read,  and  several  other  volumes  of  historical  importance. 
Indeed  his  literary  achievements  are  being  added  to  yearly 
with  a  will  and  energy  indomitable  and  purposeful. 


Wilfred  Cami)l)ell  89 

England 

ENGLAND,  England,  England, 
Girdled  by  ocean  and  skies, 
And  the  power  of  a  world,  and  the  heart  of  a  race. 
And  a  hope  that  never  dies. 

England,  England,   England, 

Wherever  a  true  heart  beats. 
Wherever  the  rivers  of  commerce  flow. 
Wherever  the  bugles  of  conquest  blow. 
Wherever  the  glories   of   liberty   grow, 

'Tis   the   name   that   the    world    repeats. 

And  ye,   who  dwell   in   the   shadow 

Of  the   century-sculptured   piles, 
Where  sleep  our  century-honoured  dead, 
Whilst  the  great  world  thunders  overhead, 

And  far  out,  miles  on  miles. 
Beyond  the  smoke  of  the  mighty  town. 

The  blue  Thames  dimples  and  smiles ; 
Not   yours   alone   the   glory   of   old, 

Of  the  splendid  thousand  years, 
Of  Britain's  might   and   Britain's   right 

And   the   brunt   of    British    spears. 
Not  yours  alone,   for  the  great  world  round, 

Ready  to  dare  and  do, 
Scot  and  Celt  and  Norman  and  Dane, 
With   the   Northman's  sinew  and  heart  and  brain. 
And   the   Northman's   courage    for   blessing   or   bane. 

Are  England's  heroes  too. 

North   and   south   and   east   and    west. 

Wherever  their  triumphs  be. 
Their  glory  goes  home  to  the  ocean-girt   isle, 
W^ere  the  heather  blooms   and  the   roses   smile, 

With    the    green    isle    under    her    lee. 
And  if  ever  the  smoke  of  an  alien  gun 

Should   threaten   her   iron    repose. 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  against  the  world. 

Face  to  face  with   her  foes. 


90 Wilfred  Campbell 

Scot,    and    Celt   and    Saxon   are   one 
Where  the  glory  of  England  goes. 

And  we  of  the  newer   and  vaster  West, 

Where  the  great  war-banners  are  furled. 
And   commerce   hurries   her   teeming   hosts, 
And  the  cannon  are  silent  along  our  coasts, 
Saxon   and  Gaul,   Canadians   claim 
A  part  in   the  glory  and  pride   and   aim 

Of  the  Empire  that  girdles  the  world. 

England,   England,   England, 

Wherever   the   daring   heart 
By  Arctic  floe  or  torrid  strand 

Thy  heroes  play  their  part ; 
For  as  long  as  conquest  holds  the  earth. 

Or  commerce  sweeps  the  sea, 
By  orient  jungle  or  western  plain 

Will   the    Saxon   spirit   be: 
And  whatever  the  people  that  dwell  beneath, 

Or  whatever  the  alien  tongue, 
Over  the  freedom  and  peace  of  the  world 

Is   the  flag  of  England   flung, 
Till  the  last  great   freedom   is   found, 

And  the  last  great  truth  be  taught. 
Till  the  last  great  deed  be  done, 

And  the  last  great  battle  is  fought; 
Till  the  last  great  fighter  is  slain  in  the  last  great  fight, 

And  the  war-wolf  is  dead  in  his  den — 
England,  breeder  of  hope  and  valour  and  might. 

Iron  mother  of  men. 

Yea,  England,  England,  England, 

Till  honour  and  valour  are  dead, 
Till  the  world's  great  cannons  rust. 
Till   the   world's  great  hopes   are   dust. 

Till  faith  and  freedom  be  fled. 
Till  wisdom  and  justice  have  passed 

To  sleep  with  those  who  sleep  in  the  many-chambered  vast, 
Till  glory  and  knowledge  are  charnelled  dust  in  dust. 
To  all  that  is  best  in  the  world's  unrest. 


Wilfred  Campbell  91 

In  heart  and  mind  you  are  wed. 
While  out   from  the  Indian  jungle 

To  the  far  Canadian  snows, 
Over  the  East  and  over  the  West, 

Over  the  worst  and  over  the  best, 
The  flag  of  the  world  to  its  winds  unfurled. 

The  blood-red  ensign  blows. 

The  Children  of  the  Foam 

OUT  forever  and  forever, 
Where  our  tresses  glint  and  shiver 

On  the  icy  moonlit  air ; 
Come  we   from  a  land  of  gloaming, 
Children  lost,  forever  homing, 

Never,  never  reaching  there ; 
Ride  we,  ride  we,  ever  faster. 
Driven  by  our  demon   master. 

The  wild  wind  in  his  despair. 
Ride  we,  ride  we,  ever  home, 
Wan,  white  children  of  the  foam. 

In  the   wild  October  dawning. 
When   the   heaven's   angry   awning 

Leans  to  lakeward,  bleak  and  drear ; 
And  along  the  black,  wet  ledges. 
Under  icy,  caverned  edges. 

Breaks  the  lake  in  maddened   fear ; 
And  the  woods  in  shore  are  moaning ; 
Then  you  hear  our  weird  intoning, 

Mad,  late  children  of  the  year; 
Ride  we,  ride  we,  ever  home, 
Lost,  white  children  of  the  foam. 

All  grey  day,  the  black  sky  under. 
Where  the  beaches  moan  and  thunder, 

Where  the  breakers  spume  and  comb, 
You  may  hear  our  riding,  riding. 
You  may  hear  our  voices  chiding, 

Under  glimmer,   under  gloam ; 
Like   a    far-off   infant   wailing. 


92  Wilfred  Campbell 

You  may  hear  our  hailing-,  hailing. 

For  the   voices  of   our   home ; 
Ride  we,  ride  we,  ever  home, 
Haunted  children  of  the  foam. 

And  at  midnight,   when  the  glimmer 
Of  the  moon  grows  dank  and  dimmer, 

Then  we  lift  our  gleaming  eyes ; 
Then  you  see  our  white  arms  tossing', 
Our  wan  breasts  the  moon  embossing, 

Under  gloom  of  lake  and  skies ; 
You  may  hear  our  mournful  chanting. 
And  our  voices  haunting,  haunting, 

Through   the   night's   mad   melodies ; 
Riding,  riding,  ever  home, 
Wild,   white  children  of  the   foam. 

There,   forever   and    forever, 
Will  no  demon-hate  dissever 

Peace  and  sleep  and  rest  and  dream: 
There  is  neither   fear  nor   fret  there 
When  the  tired  children  get  there, 

Only   dews   and  pallid  beam 
Fall  in  gentle  peace  and  sadness 
Over  long  surcease  of  madness, 

From  hushed  skies  that  gleam  and  gleam, 
In  the  longed-for,  sought-for  home 
Of   the  children  of   the   foam. 

There  the  streets  are  hushed  and  restful. 
And  of  dreams  is  every  breast  full. 

With  the  sleep  that  tired  eyes  wear; 
There  the  city  hath  long  quiet 
From  the  madness  and  the  riot. 

From  the  failing  hearts  of  care; 
Balm  of  peacefulness  ingliding, 
Dream  we  through  our  riding,  riding. 

As  we  homeward,  homeward  fare; 
Riding,  riding,  ever  home. 
Wild,   white  children  of  the   foam. 


Wilfred  ramp])ell  93 

Under  pallid  moonlight  beaming, 
Under  stars  of  midnight  gleaming, 

And   the   ebon    arch   of    nig^ht ; 
Round   the   rosy  edge  of  morning, 
You  may  hear  our  distant  horning. 

You   may   mark   our   |)hantom    flight ; 
Riding,  riding,  ever  faster, 
Driven  by  our  demon  master, 

Under    darkness,    under    Hgiit : 
Ride  we,   ride  we.  ever  home. 
Wild,   white  children   of   the   foam. 

The  Dreamers 

THEY  lingered  on  the  middle  heights 
Betwixt  the  brown  earth  and  the  heaven  ; 
They  whispered,  'We  are  not  the  night's, 
But  pallid  children  of  the  even.' 

They  muttered,  'We  are  not  the  day's. 

For  the  old  struggle  and  endeavour, 
The  rugged  and  unquiet   ways 

Are   dead   and   driven   past    for  ever.' 

They  dreamed  upon  the  cricket's  tune, 

The  winds  that  stirred  the  withered  grasses : 

But  never  saw  the  blood-red  moon 
That  lit  the  spectre  mountain-passes. 

They  sat  and  marked  the  brooklet  steal 
In  smoke-mist  o'er  its  silvered  surges : 

But  marked  not.  with  its  peal  on  peal. 

The   storm   that   swept   the   granite  gorges. 

They  dreamed  the  shimmer  and  the  shade, 
And  sought  in  pools  for  haunted  faces : 

Nor  heard  again  the  cannonade 

In  dreams  from  earth's  old  battle-places. 

They  spake.  'The  ages  all  are  dead. 

The  strife,  the  struggle,  and  the  glory ; 
We  are  the  silences  that  wed 

Betwixt  the  story  and  the  story. 


94  Wilfred  Campbell 


*We  are  the  little  winds  that  moan 

Between  the  woodlands  and  the  meadows ; 

We  are  the  ghosted  leaves,  wind-blown 
Across  the  gust-light  and  the  shadows.' 

Then  came  a  soul  across  those  lands 

Whose  face  was  all  one  glad,  rapt  wonder, 

And  spake:  'The  skies  are  ribbed  with  bands 
Of  fire,  and  heaven  all  racked  with  thunder. 

'Climb  up  and  see  the  g'lory  spread, 

High  over  cliff  and  'scarpment  yawning: 

The  night  is  past,  the  dark  is  dead, 
Behold  the  triumph  of  the   dawning!' 

Then  laughed  they  with  a  wistful  scorn, 
'You  are  a  ghost,  a  long-dead  vision; 

You  passed  by  ages  ere  was  born 
This  twilight  of  the  days  elysian. 

'There  is  no  hope,  there  is  no  strife, 
But  only  haunted  hearts  that  hunger 

About  a  dead,  scarce-dreanied-of  life. 
Old  ages  when  the  earth  was  younger.' 

Then  came  by   one  in   mad   distress, 

'Haste,  haste  below,  where  strong  arms  weaken, 

The  fighting  ones  grow  less  and  less! 
Great  cities  of  the  world  are  taken! 

'Dread  evil  rolls  by  like  a  flood, 

Men's  bones  beneath  his  surges  whiten. 

Go  where  the  ages  mark  in  blood 

The  footsteps  that  their  days  enlighten.' 

Still  they  but  heard,  discordant  mirth, 

The  thin  winds  through  the  dead  stalks  rattle, 

While  out  from  far-off  haunts  of  earth 
There  smote  the  mighty  sound  of  battle. 

Now  there  was  heard  an  awful  cry. 
Despair  that  rended  heaven  asunder. 

White  pauses  when  a  cause  would  die. 

Where  love  was  lost  and  souls  went  under, 


Wilfred  Campbell  95 


The  while  these  feebly  dreamed  and  talked 
Betwixt  the  brown  earth  and  the  heaven, 

Faint  ghosts  of  men  who  breathed  and  walked, 
But  deader  than  the  dead  ones  even. 

And  out  there  on  the  middle  height 

They  sought  in  pools  for  haunted  faces, 

Nor  heard  the  cry  across  the  night 

That  swept  from  earth's  dread  battle-places. 

Stella  Flammarum 

An  Ode  to  H alley's  Comet 

STRANGE  wanderer  out  of  the  deeps, 
Whence,  journeying,  come  you? 
From  what  far,  unsunned  sleeps 

Did  fate  foredoom  you, 
Returning   for  ever  again. 

Through  the  surgings  of  man, 
A  flaming,  awesome  portent  of  dread 
Down  the  centuries'  span? 

Riddle !   from  the  dark  unwrung 

By  all  earth's  sages ; — 
God's  fiery  torch  from  His  hand  outflung, 

To  flame  through  the  ages ; 
Thou  Satan  of  planets  eterne, 

"Mid  angry  path, 
Chained,  in  circlings  vast,  to  burn 

Out  ancient  wrath. 

By  what  dread  hand  first  loosed 

From   fires   eternal  ? 
With    majesties    dire    infused 

Of  force  supernal, 
Takest  thy  headlong  way 

O'er  this  highways  of  space? 
O   wonderful,   blossoming  flower   of    fear 

On   the    sky's   far   face ! 

What  secret  of  destiny's  will 
In  thy  wild  burning? 


96 Wilfred  Campbell 

What  portent  dire  of  humanity's  ill 

In  thy  returning? 
Or  art  thou  brand  of  love 

In  masking  of  bale? 
And  bringest  thou  ever  some  mystical  surcease 

For  all  who  wail? 

Perchance,    O    Visitor    dread, 

Thou  hast  thine  appointed 
Task,  thou   bolt  of  the   vast  outsped ! 

With  God's  anointed, 
Performest  some  endless  toil 

In  the  universe   wide, 
Feeding  or  cursing  some  infinite  need 

Where  the  vast  worlds   ride. 

Once,   only   once,  thy   face 

Will  I  view  in  this  breathing; 
Just  for  a  space  thy  majesty  trace 

'Mid   earth's   mad   seething; 
Ere  I  go  hence  to  my  place, 

As  thou  to  thy  deeps. 
Thou   fiambent  core  of  a  universe   dread. 

Where   all  else   sleeps. 

But  thou  and  man's  spirit  are  one. 

Thou   poet!    thou   flaming 
Soul  of  the  dauntless   sun, 

Past  all  reclaiming! 
One  in  that  red  unrest. 

That  yearning,  that  surge, 
That  mounting  surf  of  the  infinite  dream. 

O'er  eternity's  verge. 

The  Mother 

I 

IT  was  April,  blossoming  spring. 
They  buried  me,  when  the  birds  did  sing; 

Earth,  in  clammy  wedging  earth. 

They  banked  my  bed  with  a  black,  damp  girth. 


Wilfred  Campbell  97 


Under  the  damp  and  under  the  mould, 

I  kenned  my  breasts  were  clammy  and  cold. 

Out  from  the  red  beams,  slanting  and  bright, 
I  kenned  my  cheeks  were  sunken  and  white. 

I  was  a  dream,  and  the  world  was  a  dream. 
And  yet  I  kenned  all  things  that  seem. 

I  was  a  dream,  and  the  world  was  a  dream, 
But  you  cannot  bury  a  red  sunbeam. 

For  though  in  the  under-grave's  doom-night 
I  lay  all  silent  and  stark  and  white, 

Yet  over  my  head  I  seemed  to  know 

The  murmurous  moods  of  wind  and  snow. 

The  snows  that  wasted,  the  winds  that  blew, 
The  rays  that  slanted,  the  clouds  that  drew 

The   water-ghosts   up    from   lakes   below, 
And  the  little  flower-souls  in  earth  that  grow. 

Under  earth,   in  the  grave's   stark  night, 
I  felt  the  stars  and  the  moon's  pale  light. 

I  felt  the  winds  of  ocean  and  land 

That  whispered  the  blossoms  soft  and  bland. 

Though  they  had  buried  me  dark  and  low, 
My  soul  with  the  season's  seemed  to  grow. 

II 

From  throes  of  pain  they  buried  me  low. 
For  death  had  finished  a  mother's  woe. 

But  under  the  sod,  in  the  grave's  dread  doom, 
I  dreamed  of  my  baby  in  glimmer  and  gloom. 

I  dreamed  of  my  babe,  and  I  kenned  that  his  rest 
Was  broken  in  wailings  on  my  dead  breast. 

I  dreamed  that  a  rose-leaf  hand  did  cling ; 
Oh,  you  cannot  bury  a  mother  in  spring! 


98  Wilfred  Campbell 

When  the  winds  are  soft  and  the  blossoms  are  red 
She  could  not  sleep  in  her  cold  earth-bed. 

I  dreamed  of  my  babe  for  a  day  and  a  night, 
And  then  I  rose  in  my  grave-clothes  white. 

I  rose  like  a  flower  from  my  damp  earth-bed 
To  the  world  of  sorrowing  overhead. 

Men  would  have  called  me  a  thing  of  harm, 
But  dreams  of  my  babe  made  me  rosy  and  warm. 

I   felt  my  breasts   swell  under  my   shroud ; 
No  star  shone  white,  no  winds  were  loud ; 

But  I  stole  me  past  the  graveyard  wall, 
For  the  voice  of  my  baby  seemed  to  call ; 

And  I  kenned  me  a  voice,  though  my  lips  were  dumb ; 
Hush,  baby,  hush!  for  mother  is  come. 

I  passed  the  streets  to  my  husband's  home ; 
The  chamber  stairs  in  a  dream  I  clomb ; 

I  heard  the  sound  of  each  sleeper's  breath. 
Light  waves  that  break  on  the  shores  of  death. 

I  listened  a  space  at  my  chamber  door, 
Then  stole  like  a  moon-ray  over  its  floor. 

My  babe  was  asleep  on  a  stranger's  arm, 
'O  baby,  my  baby,  the  grave  is  so  warm, 

'Though  dark  and  so  deep,  for  mother  is  there ! 
O  come  with  me  from  the  pain  and  care ! 

'O  come  with  me  from  the  anguish  of  earth. 
Where  the  bed  is  banked  with  a  blossoming  girth, 

'Where  the  pillow  is  soft  and  the  rest  is  long. 
And  mother  will  croon  you  a  slumber-song — 

'A  slum.ber-song  that  will  charm  your  eyes 
To  a  sleep  that  never  in  earth-song  lies ! 

'The  loves  of  earth  your  being  can  spare. 
But  never  the  grave,  for  mother  is  there.' 


Wilfred  Campbell  99 

I  nestled  him  soft  to  my  throbbing  breast, 
And  stole  me  back  to  my  long,  long  rest. 

And  here  I  lie  with  him  under  the  stars, 
Dead  to  earth,  its  peace  and  its  wars ; 

Dead  to  its  hates,  its  hopes,  and  its  harms, 
So  long  as  he  cradles  up  soft  in  my  arms. 

And  heaven  may  open  its  shimmering  doors. 
And  saints  make  music  on  pearly  floors, 

And  hell  may  yawn  to  its  infinite  sea, 

But  they  never  can  take  my  baby  from  me. 

For  so  much  a  part  of  my  soul  he  hath  grown 
That  God  doth  know  of  it  high  on  Flis  throne. 

And  here  I  lie  with  him  under  tJie  flowers 
That  sun-winds  rock  through  the  billowy  hours, 

With  the  night-airs  that  steal  from  the  murmuring  sea, 
Bringing  sweet  peace  to  my  baby  and  me. 

The  Last  Prayer 

MASTER  of  life,  the  day  is  done ; 
My  sun  of  life  is  sinking  low ; 
I  watch  the  hours  slip  one  by  one 

And  hark  the  night-wind  and  the  snow. 

And  must  Thou  shut  the  morning  out, 
And  dim  the  eye  that  loved  to  see; 

Silence  the  melody  and  rout. 

And  seal  the  joys  of  earth  for  me? 

And  must  Thou  banish  all  the  hope. 

The   large   horizon's   eagle-swim, 
The  splendour  of  the  far-off  slope 

That  ran  about  the  world's  great  rim, 

That  rose  with  morning's  crimson   rays 
And  grew  to  noonday's  gloried  dome, 

Melting  to  even's  purple  haze 

When  all  the  hopes  of  earth  went  home? 


100  Wilfred  Campbell 

Yea,   Master  of  this   ruined  house, 

The  mortgage  closed,  outruns  the  lease; 

Long  since  is  hushed  the  gay  carouse. 
And  now  the  windowed  lights  must  cease. 

The  doors  all  barred,  the  shutters  up, 
Dismantled,  empty,  wall  and  floor. 

And  now  for  one  grim  eve  to  sup 
With  Death,  the  bailiff,  at  the  door. 

Yea,  I  will  take  the  gloomward  road 
Where  fast  the  Arctic  nights  set  in. 

To  reach  the  bourne  of  that  abode 
Which  Thou  hast  kept  for  all  my  kin. 

And  all  life's  splendid  joys  forego. 

Walled  in  with  night  and  senseless  stone, 

If  at  the  last  my  heart  might  know 
Through  all  the  dark  one  joy  alone. 

Yea,  Thou  mayst  quench  the  latest  spark 
Of  life's  weird  day's  expectancy, 

Roll  down  the  thunders  of  the  dark 
And  close  the  Hght  of  life  for  me; 

Melt  all  the  splendid  blue  above 
And  let  these  magic  wonders  die, 

If  Thou  wilt  only  leave  me,  Love, 
And  Love's  heart-brother,  Memory. 

Though  all  the  hopes  of  every  race 
Crumbled  in  one  red  crucible, 

And  melted,  mingled  into  space. 
Yet,  Master,  Thou  wert  merciful. 


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George  Frederick  Cameron 

It  scons  slrawgc  to  iiic  that  you  hare  not  thought  of  using 
any  of  the  Zi^ork  of  the  late  Mr.  Cameron  of  Kingston,  ivho 
z>.'as  most  certainly  the  poet  of  most  genuine  and  fervid  poetic 
energy  that  this  country  has  yet  produced.  There  are  half 
a  docen  things  of  his  that  I  icoiild  not  gir'c  for  all  thai  the 
rest  of  us  have  zvritten.  I  can  get  a  better  effect  upon  people 
by  reading  them  some  of  Cameron's  poems,  than  those  of  any 
other  Canadian  ivriter:  and  that  I  have  always  found  is  the 

true  test //  /  iverc  making  a  selection,  I  zvould 

put  than  in  this  order: — The  poem  zcithout  title,  'Standi)ig 
on  Tiptoe.'  'The  Way  Of  The  World,'  7  .Im  Young,'  'What 
Matters  It'  'To  The  West  Wind.'  '.In  .hiszcer,'  'Wisdom,' 
'Amor  Finis,'  'In  After  Days.'  ....  That  first  poem  I 
zvould  include  in  a)ty  selection  of  English  )nasterpieces  hozvez'er 
restricted,  and  the  second  one,  'Standi)tg  0)i  Tiptoe.'  is  ahnost 
as  fine. — Akciiii?ai.d  L.-\Mr^r.\x.  in  letters  to  a  Canadian  an- 
tholocrist.  1892. 


[101] 


10-2  George  Frederick  Cameron 

GEORGE  FREDERICK  CAMERON  was  born  at  New 
Glasgow,  Nova  Scotia,  September  24th,  1854, — the  eld- 
est son  of  James  Grant  Cameron  and  Jessie  Sutherland. 
He  was  educated  at  the  local  High  School,  where  he  read 
X'irgil  and  Cicero  in  the  original  and  devoted  much  time  to 
poetry,  and  at  the  Boston  University  of  Law.  His  family  had 
moved  to  Boston  in  1869.  After  graduation  he  entered  a  law 
office,  but  g'ave  considerable  attention  to  literary  work,  con- 
tributing to  a  number  of  journals.  In  1882,  he  entered  Queen's 
University,  Kingston,  Ontario,  and  the  following  year  had 
the   distinction  to   win  the  prize   for  the  best  original  poem. 

In  March.  1883,  Mr.  Cameron  became  editor  of  the  King- 
ston News,  and  in  the  following  August,  married  Ella,  the 
eldest  daughter  of  Mr.  Billings  Amey,  of  Millhaven.  He  con- 
tinued in  his  editorial  position  until  a  few  weeks  before  his 
untimely  death  from  heart  failure,  September  17th,  1885.  For 
two  years  he  had  suffered  much  from  insomnia.  His  young 
wife  and  their  daughter  survived  him. 

In  1887,  Charles  J.  Cameron,  M.A.,  edited  and  published  a 
volume  of  his  brother's  poems,  of  about  300  pages,  entitled 
Lyrics  on  Freedom,  Love  and  Death,  and  which,  he  says  in 
his  Preface,  "represents  about  one  fourth  of  his  life  work." 

The  unique  interest  attaching  to  such  a  spontaneous  and 
emphatic  expression  of  opinion  by  Lampman,  has  induced  the 
editor  to  quote  the  poems  only  that  he  mentioned  and  to 
record  no  other  critical  judgment. 

II,  me!  the  mighty  love  that  I  have  borne 
To  thee,  sweet  song!     A  perilous  gift  was  it 
My  mother  gave  me  that  September  morn 

When  sorrow,  song,  and  life  were  at  one  altar  lit. 

A  gift  more  perilous  than  the  priest's:  his  lore 
Is  all  of  books  and  to  his  books  extends ; 

And  what  they  see  and  know  he  knows — no  more, 
And  with  their  knowing  all  his  knowing  ends. 

A  gift  more  perilous  than  the  painter's :  he 

In  his  divinest  moments  only  sees 
The  inhumanities  of  colour,  we 

Feel  each  and  all  the  inhumanities. 


A! 


George  Fiedcnick  Cameron  105 

Standing  on  Tiptoe 

STANDING  on  tiptoe  ever  since  my  youth 
Striving-  to  grasp  the  future  just  above, 
I  hold  at  length  the  only  future — Truth, 
And  Truth  is  Love. 

I  feel  as  one  who  being  awhile  confined 
Sees  drop  to  dust  about  him  all  his  bars : — 

The  clay  grows  less,  and,  leaving  it,  the  mind 
Dwells  with  the  stars. 

The  Way  of  the  World 

WE  sneer  and  we  laugh  with  the  lip — the  most  of  us  do  it, 
Whenever  a  brother  goes  down  like  a  weed  with  the  tide ; 
We  point  with  the  finger  and  say — Oh,  we  knew  it !  we  knew  it ! 
But,  see !  we  are  better  than  he  was,  and  we  will  abide. 

He  walked  in  the  way  of  his  will — the  way  of  desire. 
In  the  Appian  way  of  his  will  without  ever  a  bend; 

He  walked  in  it  long,  but  it  led  him  at  last  to  the  mire, — 
But  we  who  are  stronger  will  stand  and  endure  to  the  end. 

His  thoughts  were  all  visions — all  fabulous  visions  of  flowers. 
Of  bird  and  of  song  and  of  soul  which  is  only  a  song; 

His  eyes  looked  all  at  the  stars  in  the  firmament,  ours 
Were  fixed  on  the  earth  at  our  feet,  so  we  stand  and  are 
strong. 

He  hated  the  sight  and  the  sound  and  the  sob  of  the  city; 

He  sought  for  his  peace  in  the  wood  and  the  musical  wave; 
He  fell,  and  we  pity  him  never,  and  why  should  we  pity — 

Yea,  why  should  we  mourn  for  him — we  who  still  stand,  who 
are  brave? 

Thus  speak  we  and  think  not,  we  censure  unheeding,  unknow- 
ing,— 

Unkindly  and  blindly  we  utter  the  words  of  the  brain ; 
We  see  not  the  goal  of  our  brother,  we  see  but  his  going, 

And  sneer  at  his  fall  if  he  fall,  and  laugh  at  his  pain. 


104  George  Frederick  Cameron 

Ah,  me !  the  sight  of  the  sod  on  the  coffin  Hd, 

And  the  sound,  and  the  sob,  and  the  sigh  of  it  as  it  falls! 

Ah,  me !  the  beautiful  face  forever  hid 
By  four  wild  walls ! 

You  hold  it  a  matter  for  self-gratulation  and  praise 

To  have  thrust  to  the  dust  to  have  trod  on  a  heart  that  was 
true, — 

To  have  ruined  it  there  in  the  beauty  and  bloom  of  its  days? 
Very  well !    There  is  somewhere  a  Nemesis  waiting-  for  you. 

I  Am  Young 

I   AM  young,  and  men 
Who  long  ago  have  passed  their  prime 
Would  fain  have  what  I  have  again, — 
Youth,   and   it  may  be — time. 

To  gain  these,  and  make 

Life's  end  what  it  may  not  be  now, 

Monarchs  of  thought  and  song  would  shake 
The  laurels  from  their  brow. 

And  each  king  of  earth, 

Whose  life  we  deem  a  holiday, 
For  this  would  give  his  kingship's  worth 

Most  joyously  away ! 

What  Matters  It? 

WHAT  reck  we  of  the  creeds  of  men? — 
We  see  them — we  shall  see  again. 
What  reck  we  of  the  tempest's  shock? 
What  reck  we  where  our  anchor  lock? 

On  golden  marl  or  mould — 
In  salt-sea  flower  or  riven  rock — 
What  matter — so  it  hold? 

What  matters  it  the  spot  we  fill 

On  Earth's  green  sod  when  all  is  said? — 

When  feet  and  hands  and  heart  are  still 
And  all  our  pulses  quieted? 

When  hate  or  love  can  kill  nor  thrill, — 
When  we  are  done  with  life  and  dead? 


George  Frederick  Cameron  105 

So  we  be  haunted  night  nor  day 

By  any  sin  that  we  have  sinned, 
What  matter  where  we  dream   away 

The  ages? — In  the  isles  of  Ind, 
In  Tybee,  Cuba,  or  Cathay, 

Or  in  some  world  of  winter  wind? 

It  may  be  I  would  wish  to  sleep 

IJeneath  the  wan,  white  stars  of  June, 

And  hear  the  southern  breezes  creep 
Between  me  and  the  mellow  moon; 

But  so  I  do  not  wake  to  weep 
At  any  night  or  any  moon, 

And  so  the  generous  gods  allow 

Repose  and  peace  from  evil  dreams. 
It  matters  little  where  or  how 

My  couch  is  spread : — by  moving  streams, 
Or  on  some  eminent  mountain's  brow 

Kist  by  the  morn's  or  sunset's  beams. 

For  we  shall  rest ;  the  brain  that  planned, 
That  thought  or  wrought  or  well  or  ill, 

At  gaze  like  Joshua's  moon  shall  stand, 
Not  working  any  work  or  will. 

While  eye  and  lip  and  heart  and  hand 
Shall  all  be  still— shall  all  be  still! 

To  the  West  Wind 

WEST  wind,  come  from  the  west  land 
Fair  and  far ! 
Come  from  the  fields  of  the  best  land 
Upon  our  star ! 

Come,  and  go  to  my  sister 

Over  the  sea : 
Tell  her  how  much  I  have  missed  her. 

Tell  her  for  me ! 

Odours  of  lilies  and  roses — 

Set  them  astir ; 
Cull  them  from  gardens  and  closes, — 

Give  them  to  her! 


106  George  Frederick  Cameron 

Say  I  have  loved  her,  and  love  her: 

Say  that  I  prize 
Few  on  the  earth  here  above  her, 

Few  in  the  skies ! 

Bring  her,  if  worth  the  bringing, 

A  brother's  kiss : 
Should  she  ask  for  a  song  of  his  singing, 

Give  her  this ! 

An  Answer 

</^^AN  it  be  good  to  die?'  you  question,  friend; 

^-^'Can  it  be  good  to  die,  and  move  along 
Still  circling  round  and   round,  unknowing  end, 

Still  circling  round  and  round  amid  the  throng 
Of  golden  orbs  attended  by  their  moons — 

To  catch  the  intonation  of  their  song 
As  on  they  flash,  and  scatter  nights,  and  noons. 

To  worlds  like  ours,  where  things  like  us  belong?' 

To  me  'tis  idle  saying,  'He  is  dead.' 

Or,  'Now  he  sleepeth  and  shall  wake  no  more ; 
The  little  flickering,  fluttering  life  is  fled, 

Forever  fled,  and  all  that  was  is  o'er.' 
I  have  a  faith — that  life  and  death  are  one, 

That  each  depends  upon  the  self-same  thread. 
And  that  the  seen  and  unseen  rivers  run 

To  one  calm  sea,  from  one  clear  fountain  head. 

I  have  a  faith — that  man's  most  potent  mind 

May  cross  the  willow-shaded  stream  nor  sink ; 
I  have  a  faith — when  he  has  left  behind 

His  earthly  vesture  on  the  river's  brink. 
When  all  his  little  fears  are  torn  away, 

His  soul  may  beat  a  pathway  through  the  tide, 
And,  disencumbered  of  its  coward-clay. 

Emerge  immortal  on  the  sunnier  side. 

So,  say : — It  must  be  good  to  die,  my  friend ! 

It  must  be  good  and  more  than  good,  I  deem ; 
'Tis  all  the  replication  I  may  send — 

For  deeper  swimming  seek  a  deeper  stream. 


(reor^e  Fredorick  Cameron  107 


It  must  be  good  or  reason  is  a  cheat, 

It  must  be  good  or  life  is  all  a  lie, 
It  must  be  good  and  more  then  living  sweet, 

It  must  be  good — or  man  would  never  die. 

Wisdom 

WISDOM   immortal    from   immortal  Jove 
Shadows  more  beauty  with  her  virgin  brows 
Than  is  between  the  pleasant  breasts  of  Love 
Who  makes  at  will  and  breaks  her  random  vows, 
And  hath  a  name  all  earthly  names  above : 
The  noblest  are  her  offspring;  she  controls 
The  times  and  seasons — yea,  all  things  that  are — 
The  heads  and  hands  of  men,  their  hearts  and  souls, 
And  all  that  moves  upon  our  mother  star, 
And  all  that  pauses  twixt  the  peaceful  poles. 
Nor  is  she  dark  and  distant,  coy  and  cold, — 
But  all  in  all  to  all  who  seek  her  shrine 
In  utter  truth,  like  to  that  king  of  old 
Who  wooed  and  won — yet  by  no  right  divine. 

Amoris  Finis 

AND  now  I  go  with  the  departing  sun : 
My  day  is  dead  and  all  my  work  is  done. 
No  more  for  me  the  pleasant  moon  shall  rise 

To  show  the  splendour  in  my  dear  one's  eyes ; 
No  more  the  stars  shall  see  us  meet ;  we  part 
Without  a  hope,  or  hope  of  hope,  at  heart ; 
For  Love  lies  dead,  and  at  his  altar,  lo, 

Stands  in  his  room,  self-crowned  and  crested, — Woe! 

In  After  Days 

I  WILL  accomplish  that  and  this, 
And  make  myself  a  thorn  to  Things — 
Lords,  councillors  and  tyrant  kings — 
Who  sit  upon  their  thrones  and  kiss 

The  rod  of  Fortune ;  and  are  crowned 
The  sovereign  masters  of  the  earth 
To  scatter  blight  and  death  and  dearth 

Wherever  mortal  man  is  found. 


108  George  Frederick  Cameron 

I   will  do  this  and  that,   and  break 
The  backbone  of  their  large  conceit, 
And  loose   the  sandals   from  their   feet, 

And  show  'tis  holy  ground  they  shake. 

So  sang  I  in  my  earlier  days, 
Ere  I  had  learned  to  look  abroad 
And  see  that  more  than  monarchs  trod 

Upon  the  form  I   fain  would  raise. 

Ere  I,  in  looking  toward  the  land 

That  broke  a  triple  diadem, 

That  grasped  at  Freedom's  garment  hem. 
Had  seen  her,  sword  and  torch  in  hand, 

A  freedom- fool :  ere  I  had  grown 

To  know  that  Love  is  freedom's  strength — 
France  taught  the  world  that  truth  at  length  !- 

And  Peace  her  chief  foundation  stone. 

Since  then,   I  temper  so  my  song 
That  it  may  never  speak  for  blood; 
May  never  say  that  ill  is  good ; 

Or  say  that  right  may  spring  from  wrong: 

Yet  am  what  I   have  ever  been — 

A  friend  of  Freedom,  staunch  and  true, 
Who  hate  a  tyrant,  be  he — you — 

A   people, — sultan,   czar,   or   queen! 

And  then  the  Freedom-haters  came 
And  questioned  of  my  former  song, 
If  nozv  I  held  it  right,  or  wrong: 

And  still  my  answer  was  the  same : — 

The  good  still  moveth  towards  the  good: 
The  ill  still  moveth  towards  the  ill: 
But  who  affirmeth  that  we  will 

Not  form  a  nobler  brotherhood 

When  communists,   fanatics,   those 

Who  howl  their  'vives    to  Freedom's  name 
And  yet  betray  her  unto  shame, 

Are    dead   and    coffined   with    her    foes. 


Bliss  Carman 

Caniiaii  is  before  everything  else  a  nature  poet,  but  he  is  )iot 

a    nature    poet    alone Carman's    genius    has    its 

limits — it  rarely,  and  seareely  ei'er  i<'itli  suceess.  displays  it- 
self in  themes  dealing  ivith  the  social  life  of  man — but  withiii 
its  07i'n  compass  its  strength  and  -i'ersatility  are  undeniable. 
The  i)naginafi(>ii  of  the  poet,  icliich  :^'ould  seem  extremely  soi- 
sitive  to  the  influence  of  his  enz'ironmeiit,  is  z\.'ide-reaching  and 
full  of  colour:  Jiis  fancy  is  tine  and  delicate:  his  diction  is  cul- 
tured and  'inagical' :  and  he  possesses  a  gift  of  )Jielodious  versi- 
fication such  as  perhaps  no  other  transatlantic  leriter,  with  the 
exception  of  Foe.  has  as  yet  exhibited.  i'anadia)i  in  his  youth- 
ful gaiety  and  love  of  adventure.  Xei<.'  England  in  his  practical 
idealism  and  freedom  from  dog}na,  and  more  Latin  than 
anything  else  in  his  passionate  loi'c  of  the  beautiful.  Bliss 
Carman  is  not  only  a  singer  of  7eho))i  the  Dominion  has  every 
reason  to  be  proud,  but  one  of  the  )nost  original  and  captiva- 
ting poets  of  the  present  century. — H.  1).  C.  Lkk,  Docteur  De 
L'Universite  De  Rennes.  in  Bliss  Carman:  A  Study  in  Can- 
adian I'oelrv.  1012. 

1109] 


1^0  Bliss  Carman 


BJ.ISS  CARMAN  'has  the  rare  and  vital  individuahty  of 
i^cnius.'  He  was  brought  up  in  the  beautiful  valley  of 
the  St.  John  river.  New  Brunswick,  and  as  in  the  case  of 
his  distinguished  cousin,  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts,  his  early 
quest  of  beauty  intensified  later  into  a  craving.  He  has  ever 
felt  his  kinship  with  the  trees,  the  flowers,  and  the  furtive 
wild  things,  and  has  regarded  himself  and  every  other  mani- 
festation of  the  Infinite  Spirit,  as  a  vagrant  seeking  to  attain 
to  perfection.     For  him  'God  lurks  as  potency  in  all  things.' 

After  pointing  out  that  Carman's  philosophic  thought  had 
probably  been  influenced  more  by  Robert  Browning  than  by 
anyone  else,  Dr.  Lee  sums  up  his  later  philosophy  in  these  three 
principles : 

Love  is  the  Lord  of  Life,  the  revealer  of  the  purpose  of  creation. 
This  divine  energy  can  only  be  transmitted  to  the  soul  through  the 
media  of  the  senses  and  in  proportion  as  the  senses  are  perfect.  The 
ideals  awakened  in  the  soul  by  Love  can  only  be  adequately  realized 
with  the  help  of  reason. 

William  Bliss  Carman,  of  United  Empire  Loyalist  descent, 
was  born  at  Fredericton,  N.B.,  April  15th,  1861, — son  of 
William  Carman,  a  barrister,  at  one  time  a  prominent  Gov- 
ernment ofiicial,  and  Sophia  Bliss,  an  elder  sister  of  the  mother 
of  Roberts.  He  was  tutored  at  home  prior  to  entering  the 
Collegiate  School,  in  Fredericton,  where  he  came  under  the 
influence  of  a  cultured  man  of  letters  and  an  ardent  lover  of 
open-air  life, — Dr.  George  R.  Parkin.  To  this  educationist  of 
world-wide  repute.  Carman  has  gratefully  acknowledged  his 
debt,  in  a  dedicatory  preface  to  The  Kinship  of  Nature.  In 
1878,  he  won  the  School  medal  for  Greek  and  Latin,  and 
passed  into  the  L'niversity  of  Xew  Brunswick  (B.  A.,  and 
Gold  Medalist,  1881:  M.A.,  1884;  LL.D.,  honorary,  1906). 
He  had  taken  high  iKJiiours  in  both  classics  and  mathematics, 
and  in  the  academic  year,  1882-3,  he  pursued  these  subjects. 
together  with  philosophy,  in  a  postgraduate  course  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Edinburgh.  Returning  to  Canada,  he  had  difficulty, 
apparently,  in  choosing  a  profession,  as  he  successively  taught 
school,  studied  law,  and  practised  civil  engineering,  before,  in 
1886.  he  resolved  to  take  postgraduate  work  in  Harvard  Llni- 
versity. 

From    1890  to    1892,   he   was   on   the  editorial   stafi"  of  the 


Bliss  Carman  m 


Independent,  New  York,  and  later  was  similarly  connected 
with  Current  Literature.  He  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the 
Chap-Book.  But  tiring  of  the  editorial  chair,  he  soon  became 
an  independent  man  of  letters. 

Since  he  first  attracted  wide  attention  with  his  Low  Tide 
on  Grand  Pre  (1893),  Carman  has  published  many  books  of 
poems  of  rare  quality,  and  four  volumes  of  illuminating  essays. 
April  Airs,  daintily  issued  by  Small,  Maynard  and  Company, 
Boston,  in  the  spring  of  1916,  contains  his  latest  lyrics.  They 
are  exquisite  indeed,  with  deep,  rich  tones  and  great  beauty 
of  expression. 

Earth  Voices 
I 

I   HEARD  the  spring  wind  whisper 
Above   the   brushwood   fire, 
'The  world  is  made  forever 
Of  transport  and  desire. 

'I  am  the  breath  of  being. 
The  primal  urge  of  things ; 
I  am  the  whirl  of  star  dust, 
I  am  the  lift  of  wings. 

*I  am  the  splendid  impulse 
That  comes  before  the  thought. 
The  joy  and  exaltation 
Wherein  the  life  is  caught. 

'Across  the  sleeping  furrows 
I  call  the  buried  seed, 
And  blade   and   bud   and   blossom 
Awaken  at  my  need. 

'Within  the  dying  ashes 
I  blow  the  sacred  spark. 
And  make  the  hearts  of  lovers 
To  leap  against   the   dark.' 

II 
I  heard  the  spring  light  whisper 
Above  the  dancing  stream. 


112  Bliss  Carman 


'The  world  is  made  forever 
In  likeness  of  a  dream. 

'I  am  the  law  of  planets, 
I  am  the  guide  of  man ; 
The  evening  and  the  morning 
Are   fashioned  to  my  plan. 

'I  tint  the  dawn  with  crimson, 
I  tinge  the  sea  with  blue ; 
My  track  is  in  the  desert, 
My  trail  is  in  the  dew. 

'I  paint  the  hills   with  colour, 
And  in  my  magic  dome 
I  light  the  star  of  evening 
To  steer  the  traveller  home. 

'Within  the  house  of  being, 
I  feed  the  lamp  of  truth 
With  tales  of  ancient  wisdom 
And  prophecies  of  youth.' 

Ill 

I  heard  the  spring  rain  murmur 
Above  the  roadside  flower, 
'The  world  is  made  forever 
In  melody  and  power. 

'I  keep  the  rhythmic  measure 
That  marks  the  steps  of  time, 
And  all  my  toil  is  fashioned 
To  symmetry  and  rhyme. 

'I  plough  the  untilled  upland, 
I  ripe  the  seeding  grass. 
And  fill  the  leafy  forest 
With  music  as  I  pass. 

'I  hew  the  raw  rough  granite 
To  loveliness  of  line. 
And  when  my  work  is  finished, 
Behold,  it  is  divine ! 


Bliss  Carman  ^^^ 


'I  ain  the  master-builder 
In  whom  the  ages  trust. 
I  lift  the  lost  perfection 
To  blossom  from  the  dust.' 

IV 
Then  Earth  to  them  made  answer, 
As  with  a  slow  refrain 
Born  of  the  blended  voices 
Of  wind  and  sun  and  rain, 

'This  is  the  law  of  being 
That  links  the  threefold  chain: 
The  life  we  give  to  beauty 
Returns  to  us  again.' 

A  Mountain  Gateway 

I  KNOW  a  vale  where  I  would  go  one  day, 
When  June  comes  back  and  all  the  world  once  more 
Is  glad  with  summer.    Deep  in  shade  it  lies 
A  mighty  cleft  between  the  bosoming  hills, 
A  cool  dim  gateway  to  the  mountains'  heart. 

On  either  side  the  wooded  slopes  come  down, 
Hemlock  and  beech  and  chestnut.     Here  and  there 
Through  the  deep  forest  laurel  spreads  and  gleams. 
Pink-white  as  Daphne  in  her  loveliness. 
Among  the  sunlit  shadows  I  can  see 
That  still  perfection   from   the  world  withdrawn. 
As  if  the  wood-gods  had  arrested  there 
Immortal  beauty  in  her  breathless  flight. 

The  road  winds  in  from  the  broad  river-lands, 
Luring  the  happy  traveller  turn  by  turn 
Up  to  the  lofty  mountains  of  the  sky. 
And  as  he  marches  with  uplifted  face, 
Far  overhead  against  the  arching  blue 
Gray  ledges  overhang  from  dizzy  heights, 
Scarred  by  a  thousand  winters  and  untamed. 

And  where  the  road  runs  in  the  valley's  foot. 

Through  the  dark  woods  a  mountain  stream  comes  down, 


Hi  Bliss  Carman 


Singing  and  dancing  all  its  youth  away 

Among  the  boulders  and  the  shallow  runs, 

Where  sunbeams  pierce  and  mossy  tree  trunks  hang 

Drenched  all  day  long  with  murmuring  sound  and  spray. 

There  light  of  heart  and  footfree,  I  would  go 
Up  to  my  home  among  the  lasting  hills. 
Nearing  the  day's  end,  I  would  leave  the  road, 
Turn  to  the  left  and  take  the  steeper  trail 
That  climbs  among  the  hemlocks,  and  at  last 
In  my  own  cabin  doorway  sit  me  down, 
Companioned  in  that  leafy  solitude 
By  the  wood  ghosts  of  twilight  and  of  peace, 
While  evening  passes  to  absolve  the  day 
And  leave  the  tranquil  mountains  to  the  stars. 

And  in  that  sweet  seclusion  I  should  hear, 

Among  the  cool-leafed  beeches  in  the  dusk, 

The  calm-voiced  thrushes  at  their  twilight  hymn. 

So  undistraught,  so  rapturous,  so  pure, 

They  well  might  be,  in  wisdom  and  in  joy, 

The  seraphs  singing  at  the  birth  of  time 

The  unworn  ritual  of  eternal  things. 

Garden  Shadows 

WHEN  the  dawn  winds  whisper 
To  the  standing  corn, 
And  the  rose  of  morning 
From  the  dark  is  born, 
All  my  shadowy  garden 
Seems  to  grow   aware  [ 

Of  a  fragrant  presence, 
Half  expected  there. 

In  the  golden  shimmer 
Of  the  burning  noon, 
When  the  birds  are  silent 
And  the  poppies  swoon. 
Once  more   I   behold  her 
Smile  and  turn  her  face, 
With   its   infinite   regard, 
Its  immortal  grace. 


Bliss  Carman  ^^^ 


When   the   twih^^ht   silvers 
Every    nodding    flower, 
When  the  new  moon  hallows 
The  first  evening  hour. 
Is  it  not  her  footfall 
Down   the  garden   walks, 
Where  the  drowsy  blossoms 
Slumber  on  their  stalks? 

In  the  starry  quiet, 
When  the  soul  is  free. 
And  a  vernal  message 
Stirs   the  lilac  tree, 
Surely  I  have  felt  her 
Pass  and  brush  my  cheek, 
With  the  eloquence  of  love 
That  does  not  need  to  speak! 

The  Tent  of  Noon 

BEHOLD,  now,  where  the  pageant  of  the  high  June 
Halts  in  the  glowing  noon! 
The  trailing  shadows  rest  on  plain  and  hill ; 
The  bannered  hosts  are  still, 
While  over  forest  crown  and  mountain  head 
The  azure  tent  is  spread. 

The  song  is  hushed  in  every  woodland  throat; 
Moveless  the  lilies  float ; 
Even  the  ancient  ever-murmuring  sea 
Sighs  only  fitfully ; 

The  cattle  drowse  in  the  field-corner's  shade ; 
Peace  on  the  world  is  laid. 

It  is  the  hour  when  Nature's  caravan, 
That  bears  the  pilgrim  Man 
Across  the  desert  of  uncharted  time 
To  his   far  hope  sublime, 
Rests  in  the  green  oasis  of  the  year, 
As  if  the  end  drew  near. 

Ah,  traveller,  hast  thou  naught  of  thanks  or  praise 
For  these  fleet  halcyon  days? — 
7 


116  Bliss  Carman 


No  courage  to  uplift  thee  from  despair 
Born  with  the  breath  of  prayer? 
Then  turn  thee  to  the  lilied  field  once  more! 
God  stands  in  His  tent  door. 

Spring* s  Saraband 

OVER  the  hills  of  April 
With  soft  winds  hand  in  hand, 
Impassionate  and  dreamy-eyed, 
Spring*  leads  her  saraband. 
Her  garments  float  and  gather 
And  swirl  along  the  plain. 
Her  headgear  is  the  golden  sun. 
Her  cloak  the  silver  rain. 

With  colour  and  with  music, 
With  perfumes  and  with  pomp, 
By  meadowland  and  upland. 
Through  pasture,  wood,  and  swamp, 
With  promise  and  enchantment 
Leading  her  mystic  mime. 
She  comes  to  lure  the  world  anew 
With  joy  as  old  as  time. 

Quick  lifts  the  marshy  chorus 
To  transport,  trill  on  trill; 
There's  not  a  rod  of  stony  ground 
Unanswering  on  the  hill. 
The  brooks  and  little  rivers 
Dance  down  their  wild  ravines. 
And  children  in  the  city  squares 
Keep  time,  to  tambourines. 

The  blue  bird  in  the  orchard 

Is  lyrical  for  her, 

The  starling  with  his  meadow  pipe 

Sets  all  the  wood  astir. 

The  hooded  white  spring-beauties 

Are  curtsying  in  the  breeze, 

The  blue  hepaticas  are  out 

Under  the  chestnut  trees. 


Bliss  Carman  ^^ 


The  maple  buds  make  glamour 
Vibernum  waves   its  bloom, 
The  daffodils  and  tulips 
Are  risen  from  the  tomb. 
The  lances  of  narcissus 
Have  pierced  the  wintry  mold ; 
The  commonplace  seems  paradise 
To  veils  of  greening-  gold. 

O  hark,  hear  thou  the  summons, 

Put  every  grief  away, 

When  all  the  motley  masques  of  earth 

Are  glad  upon  a  day. 

Alack,  that  any  mortal 

Should  less  than  gladness  bring 

Into  the  choral  joy  that  sounds 

The  saraband  of  spring! 

Low  Tide  on  Grand-Pre 

THE  sun  goes  down,  and  over  all 
These  barren  reaches  by  the  tide 
Such  unelusive  glories  fall, 
I  almost  dream  they  yet  will  bide 
Until  the  coming  of  the  tide. 

And  yet  I  know  that  not  for  us, 

By  any  ecstasy  of  dream. 

He  lingers  to  keep  luminous 

A   little   while   the   grievous   stream, 

Which  frets,  uncomforted  of  dream — 

A  grievous  stream,  that  to  and  fro, 
Athrough  the  fields  of  Acadie 
Goes  wandering,  as  if  to  know 
Why  one  beloved  face  should  be 
So  long  from  home  and  Acadie. 

Was  it  a  year  or  lives  ago 
We  took  the  grasses  in  our  hands. 
And  caught  the  summer  flying  low 
Over  the  waving  meadow  lands. 
And  held  it  there  between  our  hands? 


118    ^  Bliss  Carman 


The  while  the  river  at  our  feet — 
A  drowsy  inland  meadow  stream — 
At  set  of  sun  the  after-heat 
Made  running  gold,  and  in  the  gleam 
We  freed  our  birch  upon  the  stream. 

There  down  along  the  elms  at  dusk 
We  lifted  dripping  blade  to  drift, 
Through  twilight  scented  fine  like  musk, 
Where  night  and  gloom  awhile  uplift, 
Nor  sunder  soul  and  soul  adrift. 

And  that  we  took  into  our  hands — 
Spirit  of  life  or  subtler  thing — 
Breathed  on  us  there,  and  loosed  the  bands 
Of  death,  and  taught  us,  whispering, 
The  secret  of  some  wonder-thing. 

Then  all  your  face  grew  light,  and  seemed 
To  hold  the  shadow  of  the  sun ; 
The  evening  faltered,  and  I  deemed 
That  time  was  ripe,  and  years  had  done 
Their  wheeling  underneath  the  sun. 

So  all  desire  and  all  regret. 

And  fear  and  memory,  were  naught; 

One  to  remember  or  forget 

The  keen  delight  our  hands  had  caught; 

Morrow  and  yesterday  were  naught. 

The  night  has  fallen,  and  the  tide.     .     . 
Now  and  again  comes  drifting  home. 
Across  these  aching  barrens  wide, 
A  sigh  like  driven  wind  or  foam : 
In  grief  the  flood  is  bursting  home. 

Threnody  for  a  Poet 

NOT  in  the  ancient  abbey. 
Nor  in  the  city  ground. 
Not  in   the   lonely   mountains, 
Nor  in  the  blue  profound. 
Lay  him  to  rest  when  his  time  is  come 
And  the  smiling  mortal  lips  are  dumb ; 


Bliss  Carman  i^^ 


But  here  in  the  decent  quiet 

Under  the  whispering  pines, 

Where  the  dogwood  breaks  in  blossom 

And  the  peaceful  sunlight  shines, 

Where  wild  birds  sing  and  ferns  unfold. 

When  spring  comes  back  in  her  green  and  gold. 

And  when  that  mortal  likeness 

Has  been  dissolved  by  fire, 

Say  not  above  the  ashes, 

'Here  ends  a  man's  desire.' 

For  every  year  when  the  bluebirds  sing, 

He  shall  be  part  of  the  lyric  spring. 

Then   dreamful-hearted   lovers 

Shall  hear  in  wind  and  rain 

The  cadence  of  his  music. 

The  rhythm  of  his  refrain, 

For  he  was  a  blade  of  the  April  sod 

That  bowed  and  blew  with  the  whisper  of  God. 

At  the  Making  of  Man 

FIRST  all  the  host  of  Raphael 
In  liveries  of  gold, 
Lifted  the  chorus  on  whose  rhythm 
The  spinning  spheres  are  rolled, — 
The  Seraphs  of  the  morning  calm 
Whose  hearts  are  never  cold. 

He  shall  be  born  a  spirit. 

Part  of  the  soul  that  yearns, 

The  core  of  vital  gladness 

That  suffers  and  discerns, 

The  stir  that  breaks  the  budding  sheath 

When  the  green  spring  returns, — 

The  gist  of  power  and  patience 

Hid  in  the  plasmic  clay. 

The  calm  behind  the  senses. 

The  passionate  essay 

To  make  his  wise  and  lovely  dream 

Immortal  on   a  day. 


120  Bliss  Carman 


The  soft  Aprilian  ardours 

That  warm  the  waiting  loam 

Shall  whisper  in  his  pulses 

To  bid  him  overcome, 

And  he  shall  learn  the  wonder-cry 

Beneath  the  azure  dome. 

And  though  all-dying  nature 
Should  teach  him  to  deplore, 
The  ruddy  fires  of  autumn 
Shall  lure  him  but  the  more 
To  pass  from  joy  to  stronger  joy, 
As  through  an  open  door. 

He  shall  have  hope  and  honour, 
Proud  trust  and   courage   stark, 
To  hold  him  to  his  purpose 
Through  the  unlighted   dark, 
And  love  that  sees  the  moon's  full  orb 
In  the  first  silver  arc. 

And  he  shall  live  by  kindness 
And  the  heart's  certitude, 
Which  moves  without  misgiving 
In  ways  not  understood. 
Sure  only  of  the  vast  event, — 
The  large  and  simple  good. 

Then   Gabriel's  host  in  silver  gear 

And  vesture  twilight  blue, 

The  spirits  of  immortal  mind, 

The  warders  of  the  true. 

Took  up  the  theme  that  gives  the  world 

Significance  anew. 

He  shall  be  born  to  reason, 
And  have  the  primal  need 
To  understand  and  follow 
Wherever  truth  may   lead, — 
To  grow  in  wisdom  like  a  tree 
Unfolding  from  a  seed. 


Bliss  Carman  121 


.\   watcher  by  the  shccjjfoKls, 
With  wonder  in  his  eyes, 
He  shall  behold  the  seasons, 
And  mark  the  i)lanets  rise. 
Till  all  the  marching  firmament 
Shall  rouse  his  vast  surmise. 

Beyond  the  sweep  of  vision. 
Or  utmost  reach  of  sound, 
This  cunning  fire-maker, 
This  tiller  of  the  ground. 
Shall  learn  the  secrets  of  the  suns 
And  fathom  the  profound. 

For  he  must  prove  all  being, 
Sane,  beauteous,  benign. 
And  at  the  heart  of  nature 
Discover  the  divine, — 
Himself  the  type  and  symbol 
Of  the  eternal  trine. 

He    shall   perceive   the    kindling 
Of  knowledge,  far  and  dim. 
As  of  the  fire  that  brightens 
Below  the  dark  sea-rim. 
When  ray  by  ray  the  splendid  sun 
Floats  to  the  world's  wide  brim. 

And  out  of  primal  instinct. 

The  lore  of  lair  and  den. 

He  shall  emerge  to  question 

How.  wherefore,  whence,  and  when, 

Till  the  last   frontier  of  the  truth 

Shall  lie  within  his  ken. 

Then  Michael's  scarlet-suited  host 

Took   up  the  ivord  and  sang: 

As  though  a  trumpet  had  been  loosed 

In  heaven,  the  arches  rang; 

For  these  icere  they  ivho  feel  the  thrill 

Of  beauty  like  a  pang. 


122  Bliss  Carman 


He  shall  be  framed  and  balanced 
For   loveliness   and  power, 
Lithe  as  the  supple  creatures. 
And  coloured  as  a  flower, 
Sustained  by  the  all-feeding  earth, 
Nurtured  by  wind  and  shower, 

To  stand  within  the  vortex 
Where  surging  forces  play, 
A  poised  and  pliant  figure 
Immutable  as  they, 
Till  time  and  space  and  energy 
Surrender  to  his  sway. 

He  shall  be  free  to  journey 

Over  the  teeming  earth, 

An  insatiable  seeker, 

A  wanderer  from  his  birth, 

Clothed  in  the  fragile  veil  of  sense, 

With  fortitude  for  girth. 

His  hands  shall  have  dominion 

Of   all   created  things, 

To  fashion  in  the  likeness 

Of  his  imaginings, 

To  make  his  will  and  thought  survive 

Unto  a  thousand  springs. 

The  world  shall  be  his  province. 

The  princedom  of  his  skill ; 

The  tides  shall  wear  his  harness, 

The   winds   obey   his    will ; 

Till  neither  flood,  nor  fire,  nor  frost, 

Shall  work  to  do  him  ill. 

A  creature  fit  to  carry 

The  pure  creative  fire, 

Whatever  truth   inform   him, 

Whatever  good  inspire,  jj 

He  shall  make  lovely  in  all  things  1 

To  the  end  of  his  desire. 


S.  Frances  Harrison 

(Seraiiits) 
Xaturc  luis  done  much  for  Mis.  Harrison,  in   i!:i:-ini^  her  a 
ijiiick  and  ready  ivit,  a  profoundly  sympathetic  nature,  an  un- 
usual  potver   of   entering    into    the    thoughts   and   sentiments 

of  others,  besides  a  2'ery  higli   poetic  endowment 

//  is  necessary  to  mention  that  Mrs.  Harrison  is  of  British 
stock,  and  a  natire  of  Toronto.  We  do  not  mean  that  there 
are  not  abundant  ez-idences  of  this  origin  in  her  z^'ritin^s;  but 
those  zi'ho  rise  from  the  perusal  of  her  principal  volume  of 
poems  a'?//  find  it  difficult  to  beliez'e  that  she  has  no  Gallic  strain 
ill  her  constitution.  It  may  pcrhafs  be  sufficient  explanation 
for  this  phenomenon,  the  delicate  perception  of  ei'ery  shade 
of  French  thought  and  feeling,  that  the  young  artist  zcas  re- 
movcd  to  Lozcer  Canada  z\.'hen  only  a  girl  of  fifteen,  and  there 
became  conscious  of  all  the  rich  material  z^'liich  lay  around  her. 

readx  to  be  zi'orhed  up  into  liz'ing  pictures I'lze 

pages  from  'Pine.  Rose  and  Fleur  De  Lis'  are  included  in 
Stedman's  splendid  'J'ictorian  .Inthology,'  a  high  and  just  tri- 
bute from  the  foremost  critic  of  America. — Rev.  William 
Clark,  D.C.L..  in  "The   Ma.uazinc  of  Poetry."   1896. 

|123| 


1-^  S.  Frances  Harrison 

S  FRANCES  HARRISON  is  one  of  our  greater  poets 
•  whose  work  has  not  yet  had  the  recognition  in  Can- 
ada it  merits.  For  unique  originality  and  interest,  her  j^en 
pictures,  in  villanehe  form,  of  French-Canadian  character 
and  Hfe,  stand  in  ahiiost  as  distinctive  a  class  as  Dr.  Drum- 
mond's  liahitant  poems,  and  like  the  latter  they  were  produced 
from   first-hand  knowledge. 

Susie  Frances  Riley  was  born  in  Toronto,  February  24th, 
1859,  and  is  of  Irish-Canadian  extraction,  her  father  being 
the  late  John  Byron  Riley,  for  many  years  proprieter  of  the 
'Revere  House,'  King  St.  West.  She  was  educated  in  a  pri- 
vate school  for  girls,  and  later,  for  two  years,  in  Montreal. 
In  her  twenty-first  year,  she  married  Mr.  J.  W.  F.  Harrison, 
of  Bristol,  England,  a  professional  musician,  at  that  time  or- 
ganist of  St.  George's  Church,  Montreal.  In  those  days,  and 
later,  Mrs.  Harrison  was  well  known  as  a  professional  pianist 
and  vocalist,  and  indeed  her  proficiency  as  a  musician  has  since 
had  expression  in  compositions  of  worth.  In  1883,  while  liv- 
ing in  Ottawa,  where  her  husband  was  musical  director  of  the 
Ottawa  Ladies  College  and  organist  and  choirmaster  of  Christ 
Church  Cathedral,  she  wrote  and  composed  a  Song  of  Welcome 
for  the  initial  public  appearance  of  the  Marcjuis  of  Lansdowne ; 
and  she  has  since  composed  many  songs,  and  an  entire  opera, 
words  and  music. 

In  1887,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harrison  moved  to  Toronto,  where 
the  former  had  become  organist  and  choirmaster  of  the  Church 
of  St.  Simon,  the  Apostle.  It  was  about  this  time  that 
'Seranus'  began  her  literary  career  in  earnest,  and  since 
then  her  contributions  have  appeared  in  many  of  the  leading 
periodicals  and  journals.  The  following  are  her  book  pub- 
lications: Crozvded  Out  and  Other  Sketches,  1886;  Can- 
adian Birthday  Book,  1887 ;  Pine,  Rose  and  Fleur  De  Lis, 
1891  ;  The  Forest  of  Bonrg-Marie,  a  novel,  1898 :  ///  Northern 
Skies  and  Other  Poems,   1912;  and  Riugfield,  a  novel,  1914. 

Crowded  Out  and  Other  Sketches  has  special  significance, 
as  'it  was  in  point  of  time  the  first  attempt  to  put  Muskoka, 
and  the  feeling  and  landscape  of  Lower  Canada,  before  our 
people  in  an  artistic  way.' 

yir.  and  Mrs.  Ilarrisf)n  have  a  son  and  a  daughter. 


S.  Frances  Harrison  ^25 

From  '  Down  the  River ' 

Gatineau   Point 

AMALF-P.REED,  slim,  and  sallow  of   face, 
Alphonse  lies  full  length  on  his  raft, 
The  hardy  son  of  a  hybrid  race. 

Lithe   and   long,    with   the   Indian   grace, 

Versed  in  the  varied  Indian  craft, 
A  half-breed,  slim,  and  sallow  of  face, 

He  nurses  within  mad  currents  that  chase — 
The   swift,  the  sluggish — a   foreign   graft, 
This  hardy  son  of  a  hybrid  race. 

What  southern  airs,  what  snows  embrace 

Within  his  breast — soft  airs  that  waft 
The  half-breed — slim,  and  sallow  of   face, 

Far  from  the  Gatineau's   foaming  base ! 

And  what  strong  potion  hath  he  quaffed. 
This  hardy  son  of  a  hybrid  race, 

That  upon  this  sun-baked  blistered  place 

He  sleeps,  with  his  hand  on  the  burning  haft, 

A  Metis — slim  and  sallow  of   face. 
The  hardy  son  of  a  hybrid  race! 

The  Voyageur 

LIKE  the  swarthy  son  of  some  tropic  shore 
He  sleeps,  with  his  olive  bosom  bared. 
He  sleeps — in  his  earrings  of  brassy  ore. 

Like  a  tawny  tiger  whom  hot  hours  bore, 

When  all  night  long  he  has  growled  and  glared 
At  the  swarthy  son  of  some  tropic  shore, 

Like  a  fierce-eyed  blossom  with  heart  of  gore 

That  too  long  in  the  sun-flushed  fields  has  flared, 
He  sleeps — in  his  earrings  of  brassy  ore, 

And  his  scarlet  sash  that  he  gaily  wore 

To  tempt  Madelon — who  his  heart  has  snared. 
Like  the  swarthy  son  of  some  tropic  shore. 


1-6  s.  Frances  Harrison 

That  dusky  form  might  a  queen  adore — 

Prcnea  garde,  Madelon,  for  a  season  spared, 
He  sleeps — in  his  earrings  of  brassy  ore. 

For  a  season  only.     What  may  be  in  store 

For  Madelon  ?    She  who  has  never  cared  !     .     .     . 
Like  the  swarthy  son  of  some  tropic  shore 
He  sleeps — in  his  earrings  of  brassy  ore. 

Danger 

WELL  I     Let  him   sleep !     Time  enough  to  awake 
When  sunset  ushers  a  kind  release, 
When   cooling   shadows   the    raft   overtake. 

For  Madelon's  heart  will  never  break 

For  Alphonse,  but  for  Verrier,  fils, 
So — let  him   sleep !     Time  enough  to  awake 

When  Verrier,  dressed  for  Madelon's  .sake 

In  his  best,  is  up  the  river  a  piece, 
When  cooling  shadows  the  raft  overtake. 

A   Carmen — she — whose  eyelashes  make 

Havoc   with   all — old    Boucher's    niece — 
So — let  him  sleep !     Time  enough  to  awake. 

For  a  desperate  thing  is  a  bad  heart-ache, 

And  one  that  may  not  entirely  cease 
When  cooling   shadows   the   raft  overtake. 

If  they  met,  who  know^s — a  spring,  a  shake, 

A  jack-knife,  deadly  as  Malay  crease — 
Hush  !     Let  him  sleep !     Time  enough  to  awake 
\\'hen  cooling  shadows  the  raft  overtake. 

Les  Chantiers 

FOR  know,  my  girl,  there  is  always  the  axe 
Ready  at  hand  in  this  latitude, 
And  how  it  stings  and  bites  and  hacks 

W^hen  Alphonse  the  sturdy  trees  attacks! 

So   fear,  child,  to  cross  him,  or  play  the  prude. 
For  know,  my  girl,  there  is  always  the  axe. 


S.  Frances  Harrison  127 


See!     It  shines  even  now  as  his  hands  relax 
Their  grip  with  a  dread  desire  imbued. 
And  how  it  stings  and  bites  and  hacks, 

And  how  it  rips  and  cuts  and  cracks — 

Perhaps — in  his  brain  as  the  foe  is  pursued! 
For  know,  my  girl,  there  is  always  the  axe. 

The  giant  boles   in  the  forest  tracks 

Stagger,  soul-smitten,  when  afar  it  is  viewed, 
And  how  it  stings  and  bites  and  hacks ! 

Then  how,  Madelon,  should  its  fearful  thwacks 

A  slender  lad  like  your  own  elude? 
For  know,  my  girl,  there  is  always  the  axe, 
And  how'  it  stings!  and  bites!  and  hacks! 

Petite  Ste.  Rosalie 

FATHER  Couture  loves  a  fricassee, 
Served  with  a  sip  of  home-made  wine, 
He  is  the  Cure,  so  jolly  and  free. 

And   lives  in   Petite   Ste.   Rosalie. 

On  Easter  Sunday  when  one  must  dine. 
Father  Couture  loves  a  fricassee. 

No  stern  ascetic,  no  stoic   is   he. 

Preaching  a  rigid  right  divine. 

He  is  the  Cure,  so  jolly  and  free. 

That   while  he  maintains   his   dignity, 

When  Lent  is  past  and  the  weather  is  fine. 
Father  Couture  loves  a  fricassee. 

He  kills  his  chicken  himself — on  dit, 

And  who  is  there  dare  the  deed  malign? 
He  is  the  Cure,  so  jolly  and   free. 

Open  and  courteous,  fond  of  a  fee. 

The  village  deity,  bland  and  benign. 
Father  Couture  loves  a  fricassee. 
He's  a  sensible  Cure,  so  jolly  and  free! 


128  S.  Frances  Harrison 

St.  Jean  B'ptiste 

'T^IS  the  day  of  the  blessed  St.  Jean  B'ptiste, 

1  And  the  streets  are  full  of  the  folk  awaiting 
The  favourite  French-Canadian   feast. 

One  knows  by  the  bells  which  have  never  ceased, 

Since  early  morn  reverberating, 
'Tis  the  day  of  the  blessed  St.  Jean  B'ptiste. 
Welcome  it !     Joyeux,  the  portly  priest ! 

Welcome  it!     Nun  at  your  iron  grating! 
The  favourite  French-Canadian  feast. 

Welcome  it !     Antoine,  one  of  the  least 

Of  the  earth's  meek  little  ones,  meditating 
On  the  day  of  the  blessed  St.  Jean  B'ptiste, 

And  the  jostling  crowd  that  has  swift  increased 

Behind  him,  before  him,  celebrating 
The   favourite  French-Canadian   feast. 

He  is  clothed  in  the  skin  of  some  savage  beast. 

Who  cares  if  he  be  near  suffocating? 
'Tis  the  day  of  the  blessed  St.  Jean  B'ptiste, 
The  favourite  French-Canadian  feast. 

II 

Poor  little  Antoine!     He  does  not  mind. 

It  is  all  for  the  Church,  for  a  grand  good  cause, 
The  nuns  are  so  sweet  and  the  priests  so  kind. 

The  martyr  spirit  is   fast  enshrined 

In  the  tiny  form  that  the  ox-cart  draws. 
Poor  little  Antoine,  he  does  not  mind. 

Poor  little  soul,  for  the  cords  that  bind 

Are  stronger  than  ardour  for  fame  or  applause — 
The  nuns  are  so  sweet  and  the  priests  so  kind. 

And  after  the  fete  a  feast  is  designed — 

Locusts  and  honey  are  both  in  the  clause — 
Brave  little  Antoine!     He  does  not  mind 

The  heat,  nor  the  hungry  demon  twined 
Around  his  vitals  that  tears  and  gnaws. 
The  nuns  are  so  sweet  and  the  priests  so  kind. 


S.  Frances  ITarrison  129 

The  dust  is  flying.     The  streets  arc  Hned 

With  the  panting  crowd  that  prays  for  a  pause. 
Foot  little  Antoine!     He  does  not  mind! 
The  nuns  are  so  sweet  and  the  priests  so  kind. 

Catharine  Plouffe 

THIS  grey-haired   spinster,   Catharine    Plouffe — 
Observe  her,  a  contrast  to  convent  chits, 
At  her  spinning  wheel,  in  the  room  in  the  roof. 
Yet  there  are  those  who  believe  that  the  hoof 
Of  a  horse  is  nightly  heard  as  she  knits — 
This  grey-haired  spinster,  Catharine  Plouflfe — 

Stockings  of  fabulous  warp  and  woof, 

And  that  old  Benedict's  black  pipe  she  pennits 
At  her  spinning  wheel,  in  the  room  in  the  roof, 

For  thirty  years.     So  the  gossip.     A  proof 

Of  her  constant  heart?     Nay.     No  one  twits 
This  grey-haired  spinster,  Catharine  Plouffe ; 

The  neighbours  respect  her,  but  hold  aloof, 

Admiring  her  back  as  she  steadily  sits 
At  her  spinning  wheel,  in  her  room  in  the  roof. 

Will  they  ever  marry?     Just  ask  her.     Pouf ! 

She  would  like  you  to  know  she's  not  lost  her  wits — 
This  grey-haired  spinster,  Catharine  Plouffe. 
At  her  spinning  wheel,  in  her  room  in  the  roof. 

Benedict  Brosse 

HALE,  and  though  sixty,  without  a  stoop. 
What  does  old  Benedict  want  with  a  wife? 
Can  he  not  make  his  own  pea  soup? 

Better  than  most  men — never  droop 

In  the  August  noons  when  storms  are  rife? 
Hale,  and  thoug-h  sixty,  without  a  stoop, 

Supreme  in  the  barn,  the  kitchen,  the  coop, 

Can  he  not  use  both  broom  and  knife? 
Can  he  not  make  his  own  pea  soup? 
Yet  Widow  Gouin  in  command  of  the  troop 

Of  gossips,  can  tell  of  the  spinsters'  strife. 
Hale,  and  thoug'h  sixty,  without  a  stoop. 


130  s.  Frances  Harrison 

There's  a  dozen  would  jump  through  the  golden  hoop, 

For  he's  rich,  and  hardy  for  his  time  of  Hfe, — 
Can  he  not  make  his  own  pea  soup? 

But  Benedict's  wise  and  the  village  group 

He  ignores,   while  he  smokes  and  plays  on  his  fife. 
Hale,  and  though  sixty,  without  a  stoop, 
Can  he  not  make  his  own  pea  soup? 

II 
As  for  Catharine — now,  she's  a  woman  of  sense, 

Though  hard  to  win,  so  Benedict  thinks, 
Though  hard  to  please  and  near  with  the  pence. 

Down  to  the  Widow  Rose  Archambault's  fence 

Her  property  runs  and  Benedict  winks — 
As   for  Catharine — now,  she's  a  woman  of  sense. 

At  times  he  has  wished  to  drop  all  pretense 

And  ask  her — she's  fond  of  a  bunch  of  pinks, 
Though  hard  to  please  and  near  with  the  pence. 

But  he  never  progresses — the  best   evidence 
That  from  medias  res  our  Benedict  shrinks. 
As  for  Catharine — now,  she's  a  woman  of  sense, 

A  woman  of  rarest  intelligence ; 

She  manages  well,  is  as  close  as  the  Sphinx, 
Though  hard  to  please  and  near  with  the  pence. 

Still,  that  is  a  virtue  at  St.  Clements. 

Look  at  Rose  Archambault,  the  improvident  minx! 
As  for  Catharine — now,  she's  a  woman  of  sense, 
Though  hard  to  please  and  near  with  the  pence. 

In  March 

HERE  on  the  wide  waste  lands. 
Take — child — these  trembling  hands. 
Though  my  life  be  as  blank  and  waste, 
My   days   as   surely   ungraced 
By  glimmer  of  green  on  the  rim 
Of  a  sunless  wilderness  dim. 
As  the  wet  fields  barren  and  brown, 
As  the  fork  of  each  sterile  limb 
Shorn  of  its  lustrous  crown. 


S.  Frances  Ihuiison  l^l 


See — how    vacant   and    flat 

The  landscape — empty  and  dull. 

Scared  by  an  ominous  lull 

Into  a  trance — we  have  sat 

This  hour  on  the  edge  of  a  broken,  a  grey  snake-fence, 

And  nothing  that  lives  has  flown, 

Or  crept,   or   leapt,  or  been  blown 

To  our  feet  or  past  our  faces — 

So  desolate,  child — the  place  is! 

It  strikes,  does  it  not,  a  chill. 

Like  that  other  upon  the  hill. 

We  felt  one  bleak  October? 

See — the  grey  woods  still  sober 

Ere  it  be  wild  with  glee. 

With  growth,  with  an  ecstasy. 

A  fruition  born  of  desire. 

The  marigold's  yellow  fire 

Doth  not  yet  in  the  sun  burn   to  leap,  to  aspire; 

Its  myriad  spotted  spears 

No  erythronium  rears ; 

We  cannot  see 

Anemone, 

Or  heart-lobed  brown  hepatica : 

There  doth  not  fly. 

Low  under  sky, 

One  kingfisher — dipping  and   darting 

From  reedy  shallows  where  reds  are  starting, 

Pale  pink  tips  that  shall  burst  into  bloom, 

Not  in  one  night's  mid- April  gloMU. 

Dut  inch  by  inch,  till  ripening  tint. 

And  feathery  plume  and  emerald  glint 

Proclaim  the  waters  are  open. 

All  this  will  come, 

The  panting  hum 

Of  the  life  that  will  stir, 

Glance  and  glide,  and  whistle  and  whir, 

Chatter  and  crow,  and  perch  and  pry. 

Crawl  and  leap  and  dart  and  fly. 

Things  of  feather  and   things  of   fur. 


132  s.  Frances  Harrison 

Under  the  blue  of  an  April  sky. 

Shall  speak,  the  dumb, 

Shall  leap,  the  numb, 

All  this  will  come. 

It  never  misses, 

Failure,  yet — 

Never  was  set 

In  the  sure  spring's  calendar, 

Wherefore — Pet — 

Give  me  one  of  your  springtime  kisses ! 

While  you  plant  some  hope  in  my  cold  man's  breast- 

Ah !     How  welcome  the  strange  flower-guest — 

Water  it  softly  with  maiden  tears, 

Go  to  it  early — and  late — with   fears ; 

Guard  it,  and  watch  it,  and  give  it  time 

For  the  holy  dews  to  moisten  the  rime — 

Make  of  it  some  green  gracious  thing, 

Such  as  the  heavens  shall  make  of  the  spring ! 

The  trees  and  the  houses  are  darkling, 
No  lamps  yet  are  sparkling 

Along  the  ravine; 
A  wild  wind  rises,  the  waters  are  fretting. 

No  moon  nor  star  in  the  sky  can  be  seen. 

But   if   I   can  bring  her  with  thinking 
The  thoughts   that   are   linking 

Her  life  unto  mine: 
Then  blow  wild  wind !     And  chafe,  proud  river ! 

At  least  a  Star  in  my  heart  shall  shine. 

Had  I  not  met  her,  great  had  been  my  loss, 
Had  I  not  loved  her,  pain  I  had  been  spared. 

So  this  life  goes,  and  lovers  bear  the  cross, 
Burden  borne  willingly,  if  only  it  be  shared. 

Had  I  not  met  her,  Song  had  passed  me  by, 
Had  I  not  loved  her,  Fame  had  been  more  sure. 

So  this  life  goes,  we  laugh,  and  then  we  sigh, 
While  we  believe  'tis  blessed  to  endure. 


Duncan  Campbell  Scott 

lie  is  aboz'c  crcrytlii)ig  a  ["oct  of  climate  and  atmosphere, 
employing  icith  a  nimble,  graphic  toitcJi  the  clear,  pure,  trans- 
parent colours  of  a  richly-fur)iishcd  palette.  He  leaves  un- 
recorded no  single  phase  in  the  pageant  of  the  northern  year, 
from  the  odorous  heat  of  June  to  the  ice-bound  silence  of 
December.    His  work  abounds  in  magically  luminous  phrases 

and   stanzas Mr.   Scott   is  particularly   happy   in 

the  phrases  suggested  to  him  by  the  songs  of  birds 

Though  it  jnust  )iot  be  understood  tliat  his  talent  is  merely 
descriptiie.    There  is  a  philosophic  and  also  a  romantic  strain 

in   it There   is  scarcely   a   poem   of   .1/r,   Scott's 

from  ti'hicli   one  could   not  cull  sonte   )ne)n(oable  descriptiie 

passage Is   a   rule  Mr.   Scott's  workmanship   is 

careful  and  highly  finished.  He  is  before  everything  a  coloitr- 
ist.  He  paints  in  lines  of  a  peculiar  and  i-ii-id  translucency. 
But  he  is  also  a  metrist  of  no  inea)i  skill.  a)id  an  imaginative 
thinker  of  )io  commo)i  capacity. — William  Akciii:k.  in  Toet-' 
of  the  Young^er  Generation.' 

fl33] 


134  Duncan  Campbell  Scott 

SINCE  the  publication,  in  1910,  of  this  critique  by  William 
Archer,  the  disting"uished  English  critic,  observers  of  the 
poetry  of  Duncan  Campbell  Scott  have  found  it  steadily 
growing  in  imaginative  and  philosophic  as  well  as  in  human 
qualities.  His  latest  work.  Lines  in  Memory  of  Edmund 
Morris,  a  poem  of  nearly  three  hundred  lines,  published  for 
private  distribution,  is  so  original,  tender  and  beautiful  that 
it  is  destined  to  live  among  the  best  in  Canadian  literature. 

Mr.  Scott  was  born  in  Ottawa,  Canada,  August  2nd,  1862, 
and  was  educated  in  the  public  schools  of  his  native  city,  and 
at  Stanstead  Wesleyan  Academy.  He  is  of  English  and  Scot- 
tish origin,  son  of  the  late  Rev.  William  Scott  of  the  Methodist 
ministry  and  Janet   McCallum. 

In  1894,  he  was  married  to  Miss  Belle  W.  Botsford,  a  well- 
known  violinist,  daughter  of  Mr.  George  W.  Botsford,  of 
Greenfield,   Massachusetts. 

In  1880.  Mr.  Scott  entered  the  Canadian  Civil  Service  at 
Ottawa,  in  the  Department  of  Indian  Affairs,  and  ever  since 
has  been  an  official  of  this  Department.  Repeated  promotion 
rewarded  his  industry  and  efficiency  until,  in  1913,  he  be- 
came Deputy  Superintendent  General.  This  appointment,  in 
his  youth,  has  been  fortunate,  in  another  sense,  for  his  associa- 
tions with  the  Redmen  have  inspired  and  coloured  a  number 
of  his  most  original  poems. 

The  following  are  the  names  and  dates  of  Mr.  Scott's  most 
notable  publications:  The  Magic  House  and  Other  Poems, 
1893;  In  the  Village  of  Viger,  1896;  Labour  and  the  Angel, 
1898;  New  World  Lyrics  and  Ballads,  1905;  John  Graves 
Simcoe,  1905,  "Makers  of  Canada"  series,  edited  by  him  and 
Prof.  Pelham  Edgar,  Ph.D. ;  Via  Borealis,  1906,  Wm.  Tyrrell 
&  Co.,  Toronto;  Lines  in  Memory  of  Edmund  Morris,  1915; 
and  Lundy's  Lane  and  Other  Poems,  1916,  McClelland,  Good- 
child  and  Stewart,  Toronto. 

In  1903,  he  was  elected  Vice-President  of  the  Canadian 
Society  of  Authors,  and  in  1911,  Honorary  Secretary  of  the 
Royal  Society  of  Canada. 

In  the  Christmas  Globe  contest  of  1908,  Mr.  Scott  won  with 
"The  Battle  of  Lundy's  Lane,"  the  prize  of  one  hundred 
dollars,  offered  for  the  best  poem  on  a  Canadian  historical 
theme. 


Duncan  Cam])bell  Scott  ^^^^ 


At  the  Cedars 

YOU    had    two   girls — Baptiste — 
One  is  Virginie — 
Hold  hard— Baptiste ! 
Listen  to  me. 

The  whole  drive   was  jammed 
In  that  bend  at  the  Cedars, 
The  rapids  were  dammed 
With  the  logs  tight  rammed 
And  crammed ;   you  might  know 
The  Devil  had  clinched  them  below. 

We  worked  three  days — not  a  budge, 

'She's  as  tight  as  a  wedge,  on  the  ledge,' 

Says   our   foreman ; 

'Mon  Dieu !  boys,  look  here, 

We  must  get  this  thing  clear.' 

He  cursed  at  the  men 
And  we  went  for  it  then ; 
With  our  cant-dogs  arow, 
We  just  gave  he-yo-ho; 
When  she  gave  a  big  shove 
From  above. 

The  gang  yelled  and  tore 
For  the  shore. 
The  logs  gave  a  grind 
Like  a  wolf's  jaws  behind, 
And  as  quick  as  a  flash 
With  a  shove  and  a  crash, 
They  were  down  in  a  mash, 
But  I  and  ten  more, 
All  but  Isaac  Dufour, 
Were  ashore. 

He  leaped  on  a  log  in  the  front  of  the  rush. 
And  shot  out  from  the  bind 
While  the  jam  roared  behind ; 
As  he   floated   along 


136  Duncan  Campbell  Scott 

He  balanced  his  pole 

And    tossed   us   a   song. 

But  just  as  we  cheered, 

Up  darted  a  log-  from  the  bottom, 

Leaped  thirty  feet  square  and  fair, 

And  came  down  on  his  own. 

He  went  up  like  a  block 

With  the  shock. 

And  when  he  was  there 

In  the  air. 

Kissed  his  hand  to  the  land ; 

When  he  dropped 

My  heart  stopped, 

For  the  first  log's  had  caught  him 

And  crushed  him ; 

When  he  rose  in  his  place 

There  was  blood  on  his  face. 

There  were  some  girls,  Baptiste, 
Picking  berries  on  the  hillside. 
Where  the   river  curls,   Baptiste, 
You  know — on  the  still  side. 
One  was   down  by  the   water, 
She  saw  Isaac 
Fall  back. 

She   did  not   scream,   Baptiste, 
She  launched  her  canoe ; 
It  did  seem,  Baptiste, 
That  she  wanted  to  die  too, 
For  before  you  could  think 
The  birch  cracked  like  a  shell 
In  that  rush  of  hell, 
And   I   saw   them   both   sink — 

Baptiste ! — 

He  had  two   girls. 

One  is  Virginie, 

What  God  calls  the  other 

Is  not  known  to  me. 


Diiiujin  Campbell  Scott  ^-^^ 


The  Forgers 

IN  the  smithy  it  began : 
Let's  make  something  for  a  man! 
Hear  the  bellows  belch  and  roar, 
Splashing  light  on  roof  and  floor: 
From  their  nest  the   feathery  sparks 
Fly   like   little   golden   larks : 
Hear  each   forger's  taunting  yell, 
Tell— tell— tell— tell— 
Tell  us  what  we  make,  my  master! 
Hear  the  tenor  hammers  sound, 
Ring-a-round,  ring-a-round ; 
Hear  the  treble  hammers  sing, 
Ding-a-ring,  ding-a-ring ; 
Hear  the   forger's   taunting  yell. 
Tell— tell— tell— tell! 
Though  the  guess  be  right  or  zvrong 
You  must  ivear  it  all  life  long! 
How  it  glows  as  it  grows, 
Ding-a-ring-a-derry-down, 
Into  something — is't  a  crown? 
Hear  them  half  in  death  with  laughter. 
Shaking  soot  from  roof  and  rafter; 
Tell— tell— tell— tell— 
Ding-a-ring,  ding-a-ring, 
See  them  round  the  royal  thing. 
See  it  fade  to  ruby   rose, 
As  it  glows  and  grows. 
Guess,  they  shout,  for  worse  or  better: 
Not  a  crown! 
Is't  a  fetter? 

Hear  them  shout  demonic  mirth : 
Here's  a  guesser  something  worth; 
Make  it  solid,  round,  and  fine, 
Fashioned  on  a  cunning  plan, 
For  the  riddle-reader  Man; 
Ho — ho — ho — ho ! 
Hear  the  bellows  heave  and  blow : 


138  Duncan  Campbell  Scott 


Heat  dries  up  their  tears  of  mirth; 
Let  the  marvel  come  to   birth, 
Though  his  guess  be  right  or  wrong 
He  must  wear  it — all  life  long! 
Sullen  flakes  of  golden  fire 
Fawn   about  the   dimming  choir, 
They're  a  dusky  pack  of  thieves 
Shaking  rubies   from  their  sleeves, 
Hear  them  wield  their  vaunting  yell, 
Tell— tell— tell— tell! 
Forging  faster — taunting  faster — 
Guess,   my   master — Guess,  my  master! 
Grows  the  enigmatic  thing! 
Ruddy  joyance — Deep  disaster? 
Ding-a-ring,  ding-a-ring, 
Ding-a-ring-a-derry-down ! 
Is't  a  fetter — Is't  a  crown? 

The  Voice  and  the  Dusk 

THE  slender  moon  and  one  pale  star, 
A  rose  leaf  and  a  silver  bee 
From  some  god's  garden  blown  afar, 
Go  down  the  gold  deep  tranquilly. 

Within  the  south  there  rolls  and  grows 
A  mighty  town  with  tower  and  spire, 

From  a  cloud  bastion  masked  with  rose 
The  lightning  flashes  diamond  fire. 

The  purple  martin  darts  about 

The  purlieus  of  the  iris  fen; 
The  king-bird  rushes  up  and  out. 

He  screams  and  whirls  and  screams  again. 

A  thrush  is  hidden  in  a  maze 

Of  cedar  buds  and  tamarac  bloom, 

He  throws  his  rapid  flexile  phrase, 
A  flash  of  emeralds  in  the  gloom. 

A  voice  is  singing  from  the  hill 
A  happy  love  of  long  ago; 


Duncan  Campbell  Scott  J  39 

Ah!  tender  voice,  be  still,  be  still, 
'  'Tis  sometimes  better  not  to  know.' 

The  rapture  from  the  amber  height 
Floats  tremblingly  along  the  plain, 

Where  in  the  reeds  with  fairy  light 
The  lingering  fireflies  gleam  again. 

Buried   in   dingles   more   remote. 

Or  drifted  from  some  ferny  rise, 
The  swooning  of  the  golden  throat 

Drops  in  the  mellow  dusk  and  dies. 

A  soft  wind  passes  lightly  drawn, 

A  wave  leaps  silverly  and  stirs 
The  rustling  sedge,  and  then  is  gone 

Down  the  black  cavern  in  the  firs. 

The  Sea  by  the  Wood 

I   DWELL  in  the  sea  that  is  wild  and  deep, 
But  afar  in  a  shadow  still, 
I  can  see  the  trees  that  gather  and  sleep 
In   the   wood   upon   the   hill. 

The  deeps  are  green  as  an  emerald's  face, 

The  caves  are  crystal  calm. 
But  I  wish  the  sea  were  a  little  trace 

Of  moisture  in  God's  palm. 

The  waves  are  weary  of  hiding  pearls, 

Are  aweary  of  smothering  gold. 
They  would  all  be  air  that  sweeps  and  swirls 

In  the  branches  manifold. 

They  are  weary  of  laving  the  seaman's  eyes 

With  their  passion  prayer  unsaid, 
They  are  weary  of  sobs  and  the  sudden  sighs 

And  movements  of  the  dead. 

All  the  sea  is  haunted  with  human  lips 

Ashen  and  sere  and  gray, 
You  can  hear  the  sails  of  the  sunken  ships 

Stir  and  shiver  and  sway 


140  Duncan  Campbell  Scott 

In  the  weary   solitude ; 

If  mine  were  the  will  of  God,  the  main 
Should  melt  away  in  the  rustling  wood 

Like  a  mist  that  follows  the  rain. 

But  I  dwell  in  the  sea  that  is  wild  and  deep 
And  afar  in  the  shadow  still, 

I  can  see  the  trees  that  gather  and  sleep 
In  the  wood  upon  the  hill. 

The  Wood  by  the  Sea 

I  DWELL  in  the  wood  that  is  dark  and  kind 
But  afar  off  tolls  the  main, 
Afar,  far  off  I  hear  the  wind, 
And  the  roving  of  the  rain. 

The  shade  is  dark  as  a  palmer's  hood. 

The  air  with  balm  is  bland: 
But  I  wish  the  trees  that  breathe  in  the  wood 

Were  ashes  in  God's  hand. 

The  pines  are  weary  of  holding  nests. 
Are  aweary  of  casting  shade ; 

Wearily  smoulder  the  resin  crests 
In  the  pungent  gloom  of  the  glade. 

Weary  are  all  the  birds  of  sleep, 

The  nests  are  weary  of  wings, 
The  whole  wood  yearns  to  the  swaying  deep. 

The  mother  of  restful  things. 
The  wood  is  very  old  and  still. 

So  still  when  the  dead  cones  fall. 
Near  in  the  vale  or  away  on  the  hill, 

You  can  hear  them  one  and  all. 

And  their  falling  wearies  me; 

If  mine  were  the  will  of  God, — oh,  then 
The  wood  should  tramp  to  the  sounding  sea, 

Like  a  marching  army  of  men! 

But  I  dwell  in  the  wood  that  is  dark  and  kind. 

Afar  off  tolls  the  main; 
Afar,  far  off  I  hear  the  wind 

And  the  roving  of  the   rain. 


Duncan  Campbell  Scott 


141 


The  Builder 

WHEN   the   deep  cunning  architect 
Had  the  great  minster  planned, 
They  worked  in  faith  for  twice  two  hundred  years 
And  reared  the  building  grand ; 
War  came  and  famine  and  they  did  not  falter, 
But  held  his  line, 
And  filled  the  space  divine 
With  carvings  meet  for  the  soul's  eye; 
And  not  alone  the  chantry  and  thereby 
The  snowy  altar, 
But  in  every  part 

They  carved  the  minster  after  his  own  heart, 
And  made  the   humblest  places    fair, 
Even    the    dimmest    cloister-way    and    stair. 
With  vineyard  tendrils. 
With  ocean-seeming  shells, 
With  filmy  weeds  from  sea, 
With  bell-flowers  delicate  and  bells, 
All  done  minute  with  excellent  tracery. 
Come,  O  my  soul, 

And  let  me  build  thee  like  the  minster  fair. 
Deep  based  and  large  as  air. 
And   full   of  hidden   graces   wrought 
In  faith  and  infinite  thought. 
Till  all  thy  dimmest  ways, 

Shall  gleam   with  little  vines  and   fruits  of  praise, 
So  that  one  day 
The  consummate  Architect 

Who  planned  the  souls  that  we  are  set  to  build. 
May  pause  and  say : 
How   curiously  wrought   is  this ! 
The  builder  followed  well  My  thought.  My  chart, 
And  worked  for  Me,  not  for  the  world's  wild  heart ; 
Here  are  the  outward  virtues  true ! 
But  see  how  all  the  inner  parts  are  filled 
With  singular  bliss : 
Set  it  aside 
I   shall  come  here  ajrain   at  eventide. 


142  Dimcaii  Campbell  Scott 

The  Half-Breed  Girl 

SHE  is  free  of  the  trap  and  the  paddle, 
The  portag'e  and  the  trail, 
But  something  behind  her  savage  life 
Shines  like  a  fragile  veil. 

Her  dreams  are  undiscovered, 
Shadows  trouble  her  breast. 

When  the  time  for  resting  cometh 
Then  least  is  she  at  rest. 

Oft  in  the  morns  of  winter, 

When  she  visits  the  rabbit  snares, 

An  appearance  floats  in  the  crystal  air 
Beyond  the  balsam  firs. 

Oft  in  the  summer  morning's 

When  she  strips  the  nets  of  fish, 

The  smell  of  the  dripping  net-twine 
Gives  to  her  heart  a  wish. 

But  she  cannot  learn  the  meaning 
Of.  the  shadows  in  her  soul. 

The  lights  that  break  and  gather, 
The  clouds  that  part  and  roll. 

The    reek   of    rock-built   cities, 
Where  her  fathers  dwelt  of  yore, 

The  gleam  of  loch  and  shealing, 
The  mist  on  the  moor. 

Frail  traces  of  kindred  kindness, 
Of  feud  by  hill  and  strand. 

The  heritage  of  an  age-long  life 
In  a  legendary  land. 

She  wakes  in  the  stifling  wigwam, 
Where  the  air  is  heavy  and  wild, 

She  fears  for  something  or  nothing 
With  the  heart  of  a  frightened  child. 

She  sees  the  stars  turn  slowly 
Past  the  tangle  of  the  poles. 


Duncan  Campbell  Scott  ^^^ 


Through  the  smoke  of  the  dying  embers. 
Like  the  eyes  of  dead  souls. 

Her  heart  is  shaken  with  longing 

For  the  strange,  still  years, 
For  what  she  knows  and  knows  not, 

For  the  wells  of  ancient  tears. 

A  voice  calls  from  the  rapids, 

Deep,  careless  and  free, 
A  voice  that  is  larger  than  her  life 

Or  than  her  death  shall  be. 

She  covers  her  face  with  her  blanket, 
Her  fierce  soul  hates  her  breath, 

As  it  cries  with  a  sudden  passion 
For  life  or  death. 

From  *  Lines  in  Memory  of  Edmund  Morris' 

HERE  Morris,  on  the  plains  that  we  have  loved, 
Think  of  the  death  of  Akoose,  fleet  of  foot, 
Who,  in  his  prime,  a  herd  of  antelope 
From  sunrise,  without  rest,  a  hundred  miles 
Drove  through  rank  prairie,  loping  like  a  wolf. 
Tired  them  and  slew  them,  ere  the  sun  went  down. 
Akoose,  in  his  old  age,  blind  from  the  smoke 
Of   tepees   and   the   sharp   snow   light,    alone 
With  his  great  grandchildren,  withered  and  spent, 
Crept  in  the  warm  sun  along  a  rope 
Stretched  for  his  guidance.     Once  when  sharp  autumn 
Made  membranes  of  thin  ice  upon  the  sloughs, 
He  caught  a  pony  on  a  quick  return 

Of  prowess,  and,  all  his  instincts  cleared  and  quickened, 
He  mounted,  sensed  the  north  and  bore  away 
To  the  Last  Mountain  Lake  where  in  his  youth 
He  shot  the  sand-hill-cranes  with  his  flint  arrows. 
And  for  these  hours  in  all  the  varied  pomp 
Of  pagan   fancy  and  free  dreams  of  foray 
And  crude  adventure,  he  ranged  on  entranced. 
Until  the  sun  blazed  level  with  the  prairie, 
Then  paused,  faltered  and  slid   from  off  his  pony. 


144:  Duncan  Campbell  Scott 

In  a  little  bluff  of  poplars,  hid  in  the  bracken, 

He  lay  down ;  the  populace  of  leaves 

In  the  lithe  poplars  whispered  together  and  trembled. 

Fluttered  before  a  sunset  of  gold  smoke, 

With  interspaces,  green  as  sea  water, 

And  calm  as  the  deep  water  of  the  sea. 

There  Akoose  lay,  silent  amid  the  bracken. 

Gathered  at  last  with  the  Algonquin  Chieftains. 

Then  the  tenebrous  sunset  was  blown  out, 

And  all  the  smoky  gold  turned  into  cloud  wrack. 

Akoose  slept  forever  amid  the  poplars. 

Swathed  by  the  wind  from  the  far-off  Red  Deer 

Where  dinosaurs  sleep,  clamped  in  their  rocky  tombs. 

Who  shall  count  the  time  that  lies  between 

The  sleep  of  Akoose  and  the  dinosaurs? 

Innumerable  time,  that  yet  is  like  the  breath 

Of  the  long  wind  that  creeps  upon  the  prairie 

And  dies  away  with  the  shadows  at  sundown. 

What  we  may  think,  who  brood  upon  the  theme, 

Is,  when  the  old  world,  tired  of  spinning,  has  fallen 

Asleep,  and  all  the  forms,  that  carried  the  fire 

Of  life,  are  cold  upon  her  marble  heart — 

Like  ashes  on  the  altar — just  as  she  stops, 

That  something  will  escape  of  soul  or  essence, — 

The  sum  of  life,  to  kindle  otherwhere: 

Just  as  the  fruit  of  a  high  sunny  garden, 

Grown  mellow  with  autumnal  sun  and  rain, 

Shrivelled  with  ripeness,  splits  to  the  rich  heart, 

And  looses  a  gold  kernel  to  the  mould. 

So  the  old  world,  hanging  long  in  the  sun, 

And  deep  enriched  with  effort  and  with  love, 

Shall,  in  the  motions  of  maturity, 

Wither  and  part,  and  the  kernel  of  it  all 

Escape,  a  lovely  wraith  of  spirit,  to  latitudes 

Where  the  appearance,  throated  like  a  bird, 

Winged  with  fire  and  bodied  all  with  passion, 

Shall  flame  with  presage,  not  of  tears,  but  joy. 


E.  Pauline  Johnson 

(Tekahio)rcvakc) 

Since  18S9,  I  have  been  follozi.'i)ig  her  career  zvith  a  glou' 
of  admiration  and  sympathy.  I  have  been  delighted  to  find 
that  this  success  of  Jiers  had  no  da}naging  effect  upon  the' 
grand  simplicity  of  her  nature.  Up  to  tlie  day  of  her  death 
her  passionate  synipatliy  with  the  aborigines  of  Canada  never 

flagged fler   death   is   not   only   a  great  loss   to 

those  ivho  loiew  and  loved  her:  it  is  a  great  loss  to  Canadian 
literature  and  to  the  Canadia)i  )iatio)i.  I  must  think  that  she 
zvill  hold  a  memorable  place  o)nong  poets  in  virtue  of  her 
descent  and  also  in  virtue  of  the  work  she  has  left  behind. 
s)nall  as  the  quantity  of  that  work  is.  I  heliei'e  that  Ca)iada 
will,  in  future  times,  cherish  her  monory  more  and  more,  for 
of  all  Canadian  poets  she  was  the  most  disti)\ctly  a  daughter 
of  the  soil,  inasmuch  as  she  inherited  the  blood  of  the  great 
primeval  race  now  so  rapidly  vanishing,  and  of  the  greater 
race  that  lias  suppLiiitcd  it. — Theodore  WATTS-OrxTON. 

[1451 


^^•^  E.  Pauline  Johnson 

EMILY  PAULINE  JOHNSON  (Tekahionwake)  was  born 
at  'Chiefswood'  on  her  father's  estate,  in  the  Reserve 
near  Brantford,  Ontario,  in  1862.  She  was  the  young- 
est of  four  chikh-en,  and  early  showed  a  marked  tendency 
towards  the  reading  and  the  writing  of  rhymes. 

Her  father  was  the  late  G.  H.  M.  Johnson  (Onwanonsys- 
hon).  Head  Chief  of  the  Six  Nations  Indians,  and  a  descen- 
dant of  one  of  the  fifty  noble  families  of  Hiawatha's  Con- 
federation, founded  four  centuries  ago.  Her  mother  was 
Emily  S.   Howells,  of  Bristol,  England. 

Pauline's  education  in  school  lore  was  meagre, — a  nursery 
governess  for  two  years,  attendance  at  an  Indian  day  school, 
near  her  home,  for  three  years,  and  two  finishing  years  at  the 
Brantford  Central  School — but  her  education  in  the  School  of 
Nature  was  extensive,  and  that  with  her  voracious  reading — 
of  poetry  particularly — and  retentive  memory,  richly  stored 
her  naturally  keen  mind. 

As  a  poet  and  recitalist,  Miss  Johnson  won  her  first  distinc- 
tion of  note  in  1892,  when  she  took  part,  in  Toronto,  in  an 
unique  entertainment  of  Canadian  literature,  read  or  recited 
by  the  authors  themselves.  Miss  Johnson's  contribution 
was  'A  Cry  From  an  Indian  Wife,'  which  presented  the 
Redman's  view  of  the  North-West  Rebellion,  and  won  for 
the  author  the  only  encore  of  the  evening.  The  next  day 
the  Toronto  press  so  eulogized  her  performance  and  spread 
her  fame,  that  another  entertainment  was  quickly  arranged 
for,  to  be  given,  two  weeks  later,  entirely  by  herself.  Her  best 
known  poem,  'The  Song  My  Paddle  Sings,'  was  written  for 
this  occasion.  There  followed  a  series  of  recitals  throughout 
Canada,  in  the  hope  that  their  financial  success  would  be  such 
as  to  enable  the  poet  to  go  to  England  and  submit  her  poems 
to  a  London  publisher.  In  two  years  this  object  was  attained, 
and  The  White  Wampum  appeared.  It  was  received  with 
enthusiasm  by  the  critics  and  the  public  generally.  Pauline 
Johnson  had  'arrived,'  and  as  a  poet  and  entertainer  she  was 
henceforth  in  demand  in  the  British  Isles,  as  well  as  in  Canada 
and  the  United  States. 

In  1903,  her  second  book  of  verse,  Canadian  Born,  was 
published  and  the  entire  edition  was  sold  out  within  a  year. 


E.  Pauline  Johnson  1*7 

Miss  Johnson  continued  her  recitals  for  sixteen  years,  when 
faiHng  heahh  compelled  her  to  retire.  She  located  in  Van- 
couver, B.C.,  where  she  lived  until  her  death  in  1913. 

An  edition  of  collected  verse,  entitled  Flint  and  Feather, 
with  an  introduction  by  the  English  critic,  the  late  Theodore 
Watts-Dunton,  was  published  in  1912.  Besides  this  notable 
volume  which  has  run  into  several  editions,  she  has  left  behind 
Legends  of  Vancouver,  issued  in  1911,  and  a  series  of  enter- 
taining tales  for  boys. 

Canadians  have  long  been  proud  of  Pauline  Johnson,  and 
as  the  years  pass,  their  love  of  her  and  their  pride  in  her 
achievement  will  continue  to  increase.  The  editor  of  this  vol- 
ume met  her  on  the  train  while  she  was  en  route  for  England, 
in  1906;  and  her  beauty  and  charm  of  person,  her  delight- 
ful conversation,  her  warmth  of  heart  and  sympathetic  interest 
in  others,  have  persisted  in  his  memory  with  a  steadfast 
radiance. 

In  the  Shadows 

I  AM   sailing  to   the   leeward. 
Where  the  current  runs  to  seaward 
Soft  and  slow. 
Where  the  sleeping  river  grasses 
Brush  my  paddle  as  it  passes 
To  and  fro. 

On  the  shore  the  heat  is  shaking 
All  the  golden  sands  awaking 

In   the   cove ; 
And  the  quaint  sandpiper,  winging 
O'er  the  shallows,  ceases  singing 

When   I  move. 

On  the   water's   idle   pillow 
Sleeps  the  overhanging  willow, 

Green  and  cool ; 
Where  the  rushes  lift  their  burnished 
Oval  heads  from  out  the  tarnished 

Emerald  pool. 


148  E.  Pauline  Johnson 


Where  the  very  silence  slumbers, 
Water  lilies  grow  in  numbers, 

Pure  and  pale ; 
All  the  morning'  they  have  rested, 
Amber  crowned,  and  pearly  crested, 

Fair  and  frail. 

Here,   impossible  romances, 
Indefinable  sweet  fancies, 

Cluster  round ; 
But  they  do  not  mar  the  sweetness 
Of  this  still   September  fleetness 

With  a  sound. 

I  can  scarce  discern  the  meeting 
Of  the  shore  and  stream  retreating, 

So  remote ; 
For  the  laggard  river,  dozing, 
Only  wakes   from  its  reposing 

Where  I  float. 

Where  the  river  mists  are  rising, 
All  the  foliage  baptizing 

With  their  spray; 
There  the  sun  gleams  far  and  faintly. 
With  a  shadow  soft  and  saintly, 

In  its  ray. 

And  the  perfume  of  some  burning 
Far-off  brushwood,  ever  turning 

To  exhale 
All    its   smoky    fragrance   dying. 
In  the  arms  of  evening  lying, 

Where  I  sail. 

My  canoe  is  growing  lazy. 
In  the  atmosphere  so  hazy, 

While   I    dream; 
Half  in  slumber  I  am  guiding. 
Eastward   indistinctly   gliding 

Down  the  stream. 


E.  Pauline  Johnsou  ^^^ 

As  Red  Men  Die 

CAPTIVE!  Is  there  a  hell  to  him  like  this? 
A  taunt  more  galling  than  the  tluron's  hiss? 
He — proud  and  scornful,  he — who  laughed  at  law, 
He — scion   of  the   deadly   Iroquois, 
He — the  bloodthirsty,  he — the  Mohawk  chief, 
He — who  despises  pain  and  sneers  at  grief, 
Here  in  the  hated  Huron's  vicious  clutch, 
That  even  captive  he  disdains  to  touch ! 

Captive!   But  nez'er  conquered;  Mohawk  brave 

Stoops  not  to  be  to  any  man  a  slave ; 

Least,  to  the  puny  tribe  his  soul  abhors, 

The  tribe  whose  wigwams  sprinkle  Simcoe's  shores. 

With  scowling  brow  he  stands  and  courage  high, 

Watching  with  haughty  and  defiant  eye 

His  captors,  as  they  counsel  o'er  his  fate, 

Or  strive  his  boldness  to  intimidate. 

Then  flung  they  unto  him  the  choice: 

'Wilt   thou 
Walk  o'er  the  bed  of  fire  that  waits  thee  now — 
Walk  with  uncovered  feet  upon  the  coals, 
Until  thou  reach  the  ghostly  Land  of  Souls. 
And,  with  thy  Mohawk  death-song  please  our  ear? 
Or  wilt  thou  with  the  women  rest  thee  here?' 
His  eyes  flash  like  an  eagle's,  and  his  hands 
Clench  at  the  insult.     Like  a  god  he  stands. 
'Prepare  the  fire !'  he  scornfully  demands. 

He  knoweth  not  that  this  same  jeering  band 
Will  bite  the  dust — will  lick  the  Mohawk's  hand ; 
Will  kneel  and  cower  at  the  Mohawk's  feet ; 
Will  shrink  when  Mohawk  war  drums  wildly  beat. 
His  death  will  be  avenged  with  hideous  hate 
By   Iroquois,   swift  to  annihilate 
His  vile  detested  captors,  that  now  flaunt 
Their  war  clubs  in  his  face  with  sneer  and  taunt, 
Not  thinking,  soon  that  reeking,  red  and  raw. 
Their  scalps  will  deck  the  belts  of  Iroquois. 


150  E.  Pauline  Johnson 

The  path  of  coals  outstretches,  white  with  heat, 
A  forest  fir's  length — ready  for  his  feet. 
Unflinching  as  a  rock  he  steps  along 
The  burning  mass,  and  sings  his  wild  war  song; 
Sings,  as  he  sang  when  once  he  used  to  roam 
Throughout  the  forests  of  his  southern  home. 
Where,  down  the  Genesee,  the  water  roars, 
Where  gentle  Mohawk  purls  between  its  shores, 
Songs,  that  of  exploit  and  of  prowess  tell ; 
Songs  of  the  Iroquois  invincible. 

Up  the  long  trail  of  fire  he  boasting  goes, 

Dancing  a  war  dance  to  defy  his  foes. 

His  flesh  is  scorched,  his  muscles  burn  and  shrink. 

But  still  he  dances  to  death's  awful  brink. 

The  eagle  plume  that  crests  his  haughty  head 

Will  never  droop  until  his  heart  be  dead. 

Slower  and  slower  yet  his  footstep  swings, 

Wilder  and  wilder  still  his   death-song  ring's, 

Fiercer  and  fiercer  through  the  forest  bounds 

His  voice  that  leaps  to  Happier  Hunting  Grounds. 

One  savage  yell — 

Then  loyal  to  his  race. 
He  bends  to  death — but  never  to  disgrace. 

The  Song  My  Paddle  Sings 

WEST  wind,  blow  from  your  prairie  nest. 
Blow  from  the  mountains,  blow  from  the  west. 
The  sail  is  idle,  the  sailor  too ; 

0  wind  of  the  west,  we  wait  for  you! 
Blow,  blow, 

1  have  wooed  you  so, 

But  never  a  favour  you  bestow. 

You  rock  your  cradle  the  hills  between. 

But  scorn  to  notice  my  white  lateen. 

I  stow  the  sail,  unship  the  mast; 

I  wooed  you  long  but  my  wooing's  past; 

My  paddle   will  lull  you   into  rest. 


E.  Pauline  Johnson  i'^> 

O  drowsy  wind  of  the  drowsy  west, 

Sleep,   Sleep, 

By  your  mountain  steep, 

Or  down  where  the  prairie  grasses  sweep! 

Now  fold  in  slumber  your  laggard  wings, 

For  soft  is  the  song  my  paddle  sings. 

August  is  laughing  across  the  sky, 

Laughing  while  paddle,  canoe  and  I, 

Drift,  drift. 

Where  the  hills  uplift 

On  either  side  of  the  current  swift. 

The  river  rolls  in  its  rocky  bed; 

My  paddle  is  plying  its  way  ahead; 

Dip,  dip, 

While  the  waters  flip 

In  foam  as  over  their  breast  we  slip. 

And  oh,  the  river  runs  swifter  now, 

The  eddies  circle  about  my  bow ! 

Swirl,  swirl ! 

How  the  ripples  curl 

In  many  a  dangerous  pool  awhirl! 

And  forward  far  the  rapids  roar. 

Fretting  their  margin  for  evermore. 

Dash,  dash. 

With  a  mighty  crash. 

They  seethe,  and  boil,  and  bound,  and  splash. 

Be  strong,  O  paddle !  be  brave,  canoe ! 

The  reckless  waves  you  must  plunge  into. 

Reel,  reel, 

On  your  trembling  keel, — 

But  never  a   fear  my  craft  will  feel. 

We've  raced  the  rapid,  we're  far  ahead ; 

The  river  slips  through  its  silent  bed. 

Sway,  sway, 

As  the  bubbles  spray 

And  fall  in  tinkling  tunes  away. 


152  E.  Pauline  Johnson 


And  up  on  the  hills  against  the  sky, 

A  fir  tree  rocking  its  lullaby, 

Swings,  swings, 

Its  emerald  wings. 

Swelling  the  song  that  my  paddle  sings. 

The  Lost  Lagoon 

IT  is  dusk  on  the  Lost  Lagoon, 
And  we  two  dreaming  the  dusk  away, 
Beneath  the  drift  of  a  twilight  grey, 
Beneath  the  drowse  of  an  ending  day, 
And  the  curve  of  a  golden  moon. 

It  is  dark  in  the  Lost  Lagoon, 
And  gone  are  the  depths  of  haunting  blue, 
The  grouping  gulls,  and  the  old  canoe, 
The  singing  firs,  and  the  dusk  and — you, 
And  gone  is  the  golden  moon. 

0  lure  of  the  Lost  Lagoon! — 

1  dream  to-night  that  my  paddle  blurs 
The  purple  shade  where  the  seaweed  stirs, 
I  hear  the  call  of  the  singing  firs 

In  the  hush  of  the  golden  moon. 

The  Pilot  of  the  Plains 

4r~'ALSE,'  they  said,  'thy  Pale-face  lover,  from  the  land  of 

1  waking  morn ; 

Rise  and  wed  thy  Redskin  wooer,  nobler  warrior  ne'er  was 

born ; 
Cease  thy  watching,  cease  thy  dreaming, 
Show  the  white  thine  Indian  scorn.' 

Thus  they  taunted  her,  declaring,  'He  remembers  naught  of 

thee: 
Likely  some  white  maid  he  wooeth,  far  beyond  the  inland  sea.' 
But  she  answered  ever  kindly, 
'He  will  come  again  to  me,' 

Till  the  dusk  of  Indian   summer  crept  athwart  the  western 

skies ; 
But  a  deeper  dusk  was  burning  in  her  dark  and  dreaming  eyes, 


E.  Pauline  Johnson  ''-^ 

As  she  scanned  the  rolling  prairie, 

Where  the  foothills  fall  and  rise. 

Till  the  autumn  came  and  vanished,  till  the  season  of  ihe  rains, 
Till   the   western    world    lay    fettered   in   midwinter's   crystal 

chains, 
Still  she  listened  for  his  coming. 

Still  she  watched  the  distant  plains. 

Then  a  night  with  norland  tempest,  nor'land  snows  a-swirl- 

ing  fast. 
Out  upon   the  pathless   prairie   came   the   Pale-face   through 

the  blast. 
Calling,  calling,  'Yakonwita, 
I  am  coming,  love,  at  last.' 

Hovered  night  above,  about  him,  dark  its  wings  and  cold  and 

dread ; 
Xever  unto  trail  or  tepee  were  his  straying  footsteps  led ; 
Till  benumbed,  he  sank,  and  pillowed 
On  the  drifting  snows  his  head, 

Saying,  *0  my  Yakonwita,  call  me,  call  me,  be  my  guide 

To  the-  lodge  beyond  the  prairie — for  I  vowed  ere  winter  died 

I  would  come  ^ain,  beloved ; 

I  would  claim  my  Indian  bride!' 

'Yakonwita,  Yakonwita,'  O  the  dreariness  that  strains 
Through  the  voice  that   calling,   quivers,   till   a   whisper  but 

remains ! 
'Yakonwita,  Yakonwita, 

I  am  lost  upon  the  plains !' 

But  the  Silent  Spirit  hushed  him,  lulled  him  as  he  cried  anew, 
'Save  me,  save  me,  O  beloved,  I  am  Pale,  but  I  am  true! 
Yakonwita,  Yakonwita, 

I  am  dying,  love,  for  you!' 

Leagues  afar,  across  the  prairie,  she  had  risen  from  her  bed, 
Roused  her  kinsmen  from  their  slumber:  'He  has  come  to- 
night,' she  said. 
T  can  hear  him  calling,  calling. 
But  his  voice  is  as  the  (lend. 
9 


154  E.  Pauline  Johnson 

Listen !'  and  they  sate  all  silent,  while  the  tempest  louder  grew, 
And  a  spirit-voice  called  faintly,  'I  am  dying,  love,  for  you.' 
Then  they  wailed,  'O  Yakonwita, 
He  was  Pale,  but  he  w^as  true !' 

Wrapped  she  then  her  ermine  round  her,  stepped  without  the 

tepee  door, 
Saying-,  'I  must  follow,  follow,  though  he  call  for  evermore, 
Yakonwita,  Yakonwita,' 

And  they  never  saw  her  more. 

Late  at  night,  say  Indian  hunters,  when  the  starlight  clouds 

or  w'anes, 
Far  away  they  see  a  maiden,  misty  as  the  autumn  rains, 
Guiding  with  her  lamp  of   moonlight 
Hunters  lost  upon  the  plains. 

The  Songster 

MUSIC,  music  with  throb  and  swing. 
Of  a  plaintive  note,  and  long; 
'Tis  a  note  no  human  throat  could  sing, 
No  harp  with  its  dulcet  golden  string. — 
Nor  lute,  nor  lyre  with  liquid  ring, 
Is  sweet  as  the  robin's  song. 

He  sings  for  love  of  the  season 

When   the  days  grow  warm  and  long, 

For  the  beautiful   God-sent   reason 
That  his  breast  was  born  for  song. 

Calling,  calling  so  fresh  and  clear. 

Through  the  song-sweet  days  of  May ; 
Warbling  there,  and  whistling  here, 
He  swells  his  voice  on  the  drinking  ear, 
On  the  great,  wide,  pulsing  atmosphere 
Till  his  music  drowns  the  day. 

He  sings  for  love  of  the  season 

When  the  days  grow  warm  and  long, 

For  the  beautiful  God-sent  reason 
That  his  breast  was  born  for  song. 


E.  Pauline  Johnson  156 

The  Riders  of  the  Plains 

(The  Royal  North-West  Mounted  Police) 

WHO  is  it  lacks  the  knowledge?     Who  are  the  curs  that 
dare 
To  whine  and  sneer  that  they  do  not  fear  the  whelps  in  the 

Lion's  lair? 
But  we  of  the  North  will  answer,   while  life  in  the   North 

remains, 
Let  the  curs  beware  lest  the  whelps  they  dare  are  the  Riders 

of  the  Plains; 
For  these  are  the  kind  whose  muscle  makes  the  power  of  the 

Lion's  jaw, 
And  they  keep  the  peace  of  our  people  and  the  honour  of 

British  law. 

A  women  has  painted  a  picture, — 'tis  a  neat  little  bit  of  art 
The  critics  aver,  and  it  roused  up  for  her  the  love  of  the  big 

British  heart. 
'Tis  a  sketch  of  an  English  bulldog  that  tigers  would  scarce 

attack ; 
And  round  and  about  and  beneath  him  is  painted  the  Union 

Jack, 
With  its  blaze  of  colour,  and  courage,  its  daring  in  every  fold, 
And  underneath  is  the  title,  'What  we  have  we'll  hold.' 
'Tis  a  picture  plain  as  a  mirror,  but  the  reflex  it  contains 
Is  the  counterpart  of  the  life  and  heart  of  the  Riders  of  the 

Plains ; 
For  like  to  that  flag  and  that  m.otto,  and  the  power  of  that 

bulldog's    jaw. 
They  keep  the  peace  of  our  people  and  the  honour  of  British 

law. 

These  are  the  fearless  fighters,  whose  life  in  the  open  lies, 
Who  never  fail  on  the  prairie  trail  'neath  the  Territorial  skies, 
Who  have  laughed  in  the  face  of  the  bullets  and  the  edge  of 

the  rebels'  steel, 
Who  have  set  their  ban  on  the  lawless  man  with  his  crime  be- 
neath their  heel ; 
These  are  the  men  who  battle  the  blizzards,  the  suns,  the  rains, 


156  E.  Pauline  Johnson 

These  are  the  famed  that  the  North  has  named,  'The  Riders  of 

the  Plains,' 
And  theirs  is  the  might  and  the  meaning  and  the  strength  of 

the  bulldog's  jaw, 
While  they  keep  the  peace  of  the  people  and  the  honour  of 

British  law. 

These  are  the  men  of  action,  who  need  not  the  world's  renown, 
For  their  valour  is  known  to  England's  throne  as  a  gem  in  the 

British   crown  ; 
These  are  the  men  who  face  the  front,  with  courage  the  world 

may  scan, 
The  men  who  are  feared  by  the  felon,  but  are  loved  by  the 

honest  man ; 
These  are  the  marrow,  the  pith,  the  cream,  the  best  that  the 

blood  contains, 
Who  have  cast  their  days  in  the  valiant  ways  of  the  Riders 

of  the  Plains ; 
And  theirs  is  the  kind  whose  muscle  makes  the  power  of  old 

England's  jaw. 
And  they  keep  the  peace  of  her  people  and  the  honour  of 

British  law. 

Then  down  with  the  cur  that  questions, — let  him  slink  to  his 

craven  den, 
For  he  daren't  deny  our  hot  re7)ly  as  to  'who  are  our  mounted 

men.' 
He  shall  honour  them  east  and  westward,  he  shall  honour  them 

south  and  north. 
He  shall  bare  his  head  to  that  coat  of  red  wherever  that  red 

rides   forth. 
'Tis  well  that  he  knows  the  fibre  that  the  great  North-West 

contains, 
The  North-West  pride  in  her  men  that  ride  on  the  Territorial 

plains, — 
For  such  as  these  are  the  muscles  and  the  teeth  in  the  Lion's 

jaw, 
And  they  keep  the  peace  of  our  people  and  the  honour  of 

British  law. 


E.  W.  Thomson 

TJic  name  of  E.  W.  Tlioiiisun  is  a  Iwuschold  word  a)no)ig 
Canadian  literary  men,  and  staiids  for  a  skilled  craftsman  i)i 
both  prose  and  verse The  dramatic  and  thought- 
ful power  of  his  stancas,  his  finished  zcorkmanship,  the  ge)itle- 
ness  and  breadth  of  his  love  for  humanity,  all  stamp  his  zuork 
as  that  of  an  artist  of  whom  Canadians  have  good  reason  to  be 
proud,  and  of  the  first  ra)ik  of  our  litterateurs. — \V.  D.  Light- 
hall,   F.R.S.L.,   in   'The  Witness.' 

Here   is   a   poet,    manly,   fresh,    independent,   a   democratic 

lover  of  man He  has  technique,  but  can  hide  it 

and  get  an  effect  of  life  and  originality  thereby.  He  has 
heart  and  brains  and  imagination.  He  is  daringly  vernacular 
in  his  speech,  which  is  all  the  better,  for  it  reminds  us  that  the 
proper  idio)n  of  poetry  is  drazvn  from  the  people,  not  the 
drawi)ig-room.  He  is  a  realist,  not  in  diction  alone,  but  in  his 
liking  for  plain  realities  and  persons.  But  he  is  equally  an 
idealist,  because  he  sees  the  beauty  which  hides  in  common 
things,  and  believes  in  the  spirit  which  aspires  front  clod  to 
star.—FRiW.  Richard  l-..  IUkthn.  I'li.D..  in  'The  Bellman.' 

[157] 


158  E.  W.  Thomson 


EDWARD  WILLIAM  THOMSON  was  born  in  Toronto 
township,  county  of  Peel,  Ontario,  February  12th,  1849. 
His  father  was  Wilham  Thomson,  grandson  of  Archibald 
Thomson,  the  first  settler  in  Scarboro.  His  grandfather 
Edward  William  Thomson,  was  present  at  the  taking  of  De- 
troit, and  served  with  distinction  under  Brock  at  Queenston 
Heights ;  and  was  afterwards  well  known  in  Upper  Canada  as 
Col.  E.  W.  Thomson  of  the  Legislative  Council,  and  as  the 
one  successful  opponent  of  William  Lyon  Mackenzie  in  an 
election  for  the  Legislature.  The  mother  of  the  ])resent  E.  W. 
Thomson  was  Margaret  Hamilton  Foley,  sister  of  the  Hon.  A  I. 
H.  Foley,  twice  Postmaster-General  of  the  united  Canadas. 

The  future  poet  was  educated  at  the  Brantford  Grammar 
School,  and  at  the  Trinity  College  Grammar  School  at  Weston ; 
but  when  about  fourteen  years  of  age,  he  was  sent  to  an  uncle 
and  aunt  in  Philadelphia  and  given  a  position  in  a  wholesale 
mercantile  house  as  'office  junior.'  Finding  this  employment 
very  uncongenial,  he  enlisted  in  the  Union  army,  in  October, 
1864,  as  a  trooper  in  the  3rd  Pennsylvania  Cavalry.  This 
corps  was  engaged  twice  at  Hatcher's  Run,  and  was  with 
Grant  when  he  took  Petersburgh.  Discharged  in  August,  1865, 
he  returned  to  the  parental  home  at  Chippewa,  Ontario.  In 
June,  1866,  when  the  Fenians  raided  Upper  Canada,  young 
Thomson  promptly  enlisted  in  the  Queen's  Own,  and  was  in 
action  at  the  Ridgeway  fight.  The  following  year  he  entered 
the  profession  of  Civil  Engineering,  and  in  1872  was  regis- 
tered a  Provincial  Land  Surveyor.  He  practised  his  profes- 
sion until  December,  1878,  when  at  the  invitation  of  the  Hon 
George  Brown,  he  joined  the  stafif  of  The  Globe,  Toronto, 
as  an  editorial  writer.  Four  years  later  the  Manitoba  boom 
attracted  him,  and  he  practised  surveying  for  two  or  three  years 
in  Winnipeg.  In  1885,  he  rejoined  The  Globe  stafif,  but  retired 
again  in  1891,  because  of  his  opposition  to  the  Liberal  policy  of 
Unrestricted  Reciprocity.  Shortly  afterwards  he  was  invited 
to  join  the  stafif  of  the  Youth's  Companion.  He  accepted  and 
remained  for  eleven  years. 

Since  1903,  he  has  lived  in  Ottawa,  employed  as  a  newspaper 
correspondent  and  engaged  in  literary  work.  The  Many-Man- 
sioned  House  and  Other  Poems  was  issued  in  1909.  His 
poems,  like  his  short  stories,  are  lucid,  vital,  original. 


E.  W.  Tliomsoii  1"^^ 


Thunderchild's  Lament 

WHEN  the  years  grew  worse,  and  the  tribe  longed  sore 
For  a  kinsman  bred  to  the  white  man's  lore, 
To  the  Mission  School  they  sent  forth  me 
From  the  hunting  life  and  the  skin  tepee. 

In  the  Mission  School  eight  years  I  wrought 
Till  my  heart  grew  strange  to  its  boyhood's  thought, 
Then  the  white  men  sent  me  forth  from  their  ways 
To  the  Black  foot  lodge  and  the  roving  days. 

'He  tells  of  their  God,'  said  the  Chiefs  when  I  spake, 
'But  naught  of  the  magic  our  foemen  make, 
'T  is  a  Blackfoot  heart  with  a  white  man's  fear. 
And  all  skill  forgot  that  could  help  him  here.' 

For  the  Mission  Priest  had  bent  my  will 
From  the  art  to  steal  and  the  mind  to  kill, 
Then  out  from  the  life  I  had  learned  sent  me 
To  the  hungry  plain  and  the  dim  tepee. 

When  the  moon  of  March  was  great  and  round, 
No  meat  for  my  father's  teeth  I  found ; 
When  the  moon  of  March  was  curved  and  thin, 
No  meat  for  his  life  could  my  hunting  win. 

Wide  went  the  tracks  of  my  snowshoe  mesh, 

Deep  was  the  white,  and  it  still  fell  fresh 

Far  in  the  foothills,  far  on  the  plain. 

Where  I  searched  for  the  elk  and  the  grouse  in  vain. 

In  the  Lodge  lay  my  father,  grim  in  the  smoke. 
His  eyes  pierced  mine  as  the  gray  dawn  broke, 
He  gnawed  on  the  edge  of  the  buffalo  hide. 
And  I  must  be  accurst  if  my  father  died. 

He  spoke  with  wail :  'In  the  famine  year 

When  my  father  starved  as  I  starve  here, 

Was  my  heart  like  the  squaw's  who  has  fear  to  slay 

'Mongst  the  herds  of  the  white  man  far  away?" 

From  the  Mission  School  they  sent  forth  mc 
To  the  gau)it.  wild  life  of  the  dark  tepee; 


160  E.  W.  Thomson 

JVith  the  fear  to  steal,  and  the  dread  to  kill, 
And  the  love  of  Christ  they  had  bent  my  will. 

But  my  father  gnawed  on  the  buffalo  hide ; — 
Toward  the  sunrise  trod  my  snowshoe  stride, 
Straight  to  the  white  man's  herd  it  led, 
Till  the  sun  sank  down  at  my  back  in  red. 

Next  dawn  was  bleak  when  I  slew  the  steer, 
I  ate  of  the  raw,  and  it  gave  me  cheer; 
So  I  set  my  feet  in  the  track  once  more, 
With  my  father's  life  in  the  meat  I  bore. 

Far  strode  the  herder,  fast  on  my  trail; 
Noon  was  high  when  I  heard  his  hail; 
I  fled  in  fear,  but  my  feet  moved  slow, 
For  the  load  I  shouldered  sank  them  low. 

Then  I  heard  no  sound  but  the  creak  and  clack 
Of  his  snowshoes  treading  my  snowshoe  track, 
And  I  saw  never  help  in  plain  or  sky 
Save  that  he  should  die  or  my  father  die. 

The  Mission  Priest  had  broke  my  will 
With  the  curse  on  him  zvho  blood  ivould  spill, 
But  my  father  starved  in  the  black  tepee, 
And  the  cry  of  his  starving  shrieked  to  me. 

The  white  world  reeled  to  its  cloudy  rim, 

The  plain  reeled  red  as  I  knelt  by  him, — 

Oh,  the  spot  in  the  snow,  how  it  pulsed  and  grew, 

How  it  cried  from  the  mid-white  up  to  the  blue! 

For  the  Mission  Priest  had  sent  forth  me 
To  the  wants  and  deeds  of  the  wild  tepee, 
Yet  the  fear  of  God's  strong  curse  fulfilled, 
Cried  with  the  blood  that  would  not  be  stilled. 

They  found  me  not  while  the  year  was  green 
And  the  rose  "blew  sweet  where  the  stain  had  been. 
They  found  me  not  when  the  fall-flowers  flare, 
But  the  red  in  the  snow  was  ever  there. 

To  the  Jail  I  fled  from  the  safe  tepee, 

And  the  Mission  Priest  will  send  forth  me, 


E.  W.  Thomson  '♦>! 

A  Blackfoot  soul  cleansed  white  from  stain — 
Yet  never  the  red  spot  fades  from  the  plain. 

It  glares  in  my  eyes  when  sunbeams  fall 
Through  the  iron  grate  of  my  stone-gray  wall, 
And  I  see,  throug'h  starlight,  foxes  go 
To  track  and  to  taste  of  the  ruddy  snow. 

The  Mandan  Priest 

THEY  call  me  now  the  Indian  Priest, 
Their  fathers'  fathers  did  not  so, 
The  very  Mandan  name  hath  ceased 
From  speech  since  fifty  years  ago; 
I  am  so  old  my  fingers  fail 
My  trembling  rosary  beads  to  tell, 
Yet  all  my  years  do  not  avail 
My  Mandan  memories  to  quell. 

The  whole  flat  world  I've  seen  how  changed 

Within  my  lifetime's  hundred  years ; 

O'er  plains  where  herding  buflFalo  ranged 

Came  strange  new  grass  with  white  men's  steers, 

The  lowing  cattle  passed  as  dreams, 

Their  pastures  reared  a  farmer  race, 

Now  city  windows  flash  their  gleams 

Nigh  our  old  Monastery's  place. 

The  Prior  gives  to  me  no  more 

Even  a  task  of  inward  praise, 

The  Brethren  bear  me  through  our  door 

To  bask  me  here  on  summer  days ; 

I  am  so  old  I   cannot  kneel, 

I  cannot  hear,  I  cannot  see. 

Often  I  wonder  if  I  feel 

The  very  sunbeams  warming  me. 

Yet  do  I  watch  the  Mandan  dog's 

And  Mandan  ponies  slain  for  meat 

That  year  the  squaws  chewed  snakes  and  frogs 

That  babes  might  tug  a  living  teat, 

And  Mandan  braves,  in  daylight  dance. 


16-^  E.  W.  Thomson 


Gashed  side  and  arm  and  painted  breast, 
Praying  The  Manitou  might  trance 
No  more  the  buffalo  from  their  quest. 

A  circled  plain  all  horse-high  grassed 

Our  mounting  scouts  beheld  at  dawn, 

They  saw  naught  else  though  far  they  passed 

Apart  before  the  sun  was  gone ; 

Each  night's  ride  back  through  starlit  lanes 

They  saw  the  tepee  sparks  ascend, 

And  hoped,  and  sniffed,  and  knew  their  pains 

Of  famine  had  not  yet  an  end. 

Alone   within   his   magic   tent 

The  new-made  Midi  wrought  the  spell 

That  soothed  Life's  Master  to  relent 

In  years  the  Old  remembered  well. 

He  cried, — 'The  Mission  Priests  have  wreaked 

Some  curse  that  balks  the  Ancient  Art!' 

'Thou  useless  Fool,'  the  war-chief  shrieked, 

And  sped  the  knife-thrust  to  his  heart. 

With  that,  'What  comes?'  my  mother  screamed —  ; 

How  quick  the  squatted  braves  arose ! 

Far  in  the  south  the  tallest  deemed 

He  saw  the  flight  of  up-scared  crows; 

Above  the  horse-high  grass  came  slow 

A  lifted  Cross,  a  tonsured  head, — 

And  what  the  meaning  none  could  know 

Until  the  black-robed  rider  said : — 

'Mandans,  I  bear  our  Mission's  word, — 
Your  children,  brought  to  us,  shall  eat.' 
Scarce  had  the  fierce  young  War-chief  heard 
Ere  fell  the  Blackrobe  from  his  seat ; 
The  Chief  held  high  the  reeking  knife, 
He  frowned  about  the  Woman's  Ring, 
And  yet  my  mother's  face  took  life 
Anew  in  pondering  the  thing. 

She  stole  at  night  the  dead  Priest's  scrip, 
His  meagre  wallet's  hard-baked  food, 


E.  W.  Thomson  163 


His  crucifix,  his   waist-rope  strip 
All  blackened  with  his  martyr  blood ; 
Throug'h  dark,  day-hidden,  hand  in  hand. 
We  traced  his  trail  for  ninety  mile. 
She  starved  herself  that  I  might  stand, 
She  spoke  me  comfort  all  the  while: — 

'So  shalt  thou  live,  my  little  son, 

The  zvhite  men's  magic  shalt  thou  learn, 

And  zvhen  the  hungry  moons  are  run. 

Be  sure  thy  mother  shall  return; 

Oh,  sweet  my  joy  when,  come  again, 

I  find  thy  Mandan  heart  untamed. 

As  fits  a  warrior  of  the  plain. 

That  I,  thy  mother,  be  not  shamed.' 

She  left  me  while  the  black-robed  men 
Blest  and  beseeched  her  sore  to  stay ; 
No  voice  hath  told  my  heart  since  then 
How  fared  my  mother's  backward  way. 
Years,  years  within  the  Mission  School, 
By  love,  by  prayer  they  gained  my  heart; 
It  held  me  to  Our  Order's  rule, 
From  all  the  Mandan  life  apart. 

From  tribe  to  tribe,  through  sixty  years. 
The  Mandan  Priest  for  Christ  he  wrought, 
And  many  an  Indian  heart  to  tears. 
And  many  a  soul  to  God  he  brought ; 
Yet  do  I  hear  my  mother's  voice 
Soft  lingering  round  her  little  son, 
And,  O  dear  Lord,  dost  Thou  rejoice 
In  all  my  mother's  child  hath  done? 

The  Canadian  Rossignol 

(In  May) 

W1IR.\  furrowed  fields  of  shaded  brown, 
And  emerald  meadows  spread  between, 
And  belfries  towering  from  the  town. 
All  blent  in   wavcrins;  mists  are  seen ; 


164  E.  W.  Thomson 


When  quickening  woods  with   freshening  hue 
Along  Mount  Royal  rolling  swell, 

When  winds  caress  and  May  is  new, 
Oh,  then  my  shy  bird  sings  so  well! 

Because  the  bloodroots  flock  so  white, 

And  blossoms  scent  the  wooing  air, 
And  mounds  with  trillium  flags  are  dight, 

And  dells  with  violets  frail  and  rare; 
Because  such  velvet  leaves  unclose, 

And  new-born  rills  all  chiming  ring, 
And  blue  the  sun-kissed  river  flows. 

My  timid  bird  is  forced  to  sing. 

A  joyful  flourish  Hfted  clear. 

Four  notes,  then  fails  the  frolic  song, 
And  memories  of  a  sweeter  year 

The  wistful  cadences  prolong; — 
'A  sweeter  year — Oh,  heart  too  sore! — 

/  cannot  sing!' — So  ends  the  lay. 
Long  silence.     Then  awakes  once  more 

His  song,  ecstatic  with  the  May. 

The  Canadian  Rossignol 

(In  June) 

PRONE  where  maples  widely  spread 
I  watch  the  far  blue  overhead, 
Wbere  little  pillowy  clouds   arise 
From  naught  to  die  before  my  eyes; 
Within  the  shade  a  pleasant  rout 
Of  dallying  zephyrs  steal  about ; 
Lazily  as  moves  the  day 
Odours  float  and  faint  away 
From  roses  yellow,  red,  and  white. 
That  prank   yon   garden   with   delight; 
Round  which  the  locust  blossoms  swing. 
And  some  late  lilacs  droop  for  spring. 
Anon  swells  up  a  dubious  breeze, 
Stirring  the  half-reluctant  trees. 


E.  W.  Thomson  ^^^-^ 

Then,  rising  to  a  mimic  gale, 
Ruffles  the  massy  oaks  to  pale, 
Till  spent  its  sudden  force,  once  more 
The  zephyrs  come  that  went  before ; 
Now  silvery  poplars  shivering  stand. 
And  languid  lindens  waver  bland, 
Hemlock  traceries  scarcely  stir, 
All  the  pines  of  summer  purr. 
Hovering  butterflies  I  see, 
Full  of  business  shoots  the  bee, 
Straight  from  the  valley  is  his  flight 
Where  crowding  marbles  solemn  white 
Show  through  the  trees  and  mutely  tell 
How  there  the  low-laid  loved  rest  well. 
Half  hid  in  the  grasses  there 
Red  breast  thrushes  jump  and  stare, 
Sparrows  flutter  up  like  leaves 
Tossed  upon  the  wind  in  sheaves. 
Curve-winged  swallows  slant  and  slide 
O'er  the  graves  that  stretch  so  wide. 
Steady  crows  go  labouring  by — 
Ha !  the  Rossignol  is  nigh ! 

Rossignol,  why  will  you  sing, 

Though  lost  the  lovely  world  of  spring? 

'T  was  well  that  then  your  roulades  rang 

Of  joy,  despite  of  every  pang; 

But  now  the  sweet,  the  bliss  is  gone — 

Nay,  now  the  summer  joy  is  on, 

And  lo,  the  foliage  and  the  bloom. 

The  fuller  life,  the  bluer  room, 

'T  was  this  the  sweet  spring  promised  me. 
Oh,  bird,  and  can  you  sing  so  free, 
Though  never  yet  the  roaming  wind 
Could   leave   earth's   countless  graves   behind  ? 
And  will  you  sing  when  summer  goes 
And  leaves  turn  brown  and  dies  the  rose? 

Oh,  then  hozv  brave  shall  Autumn  dress 

The  maple  out  unth  gorgeousness! 

And  red-cheeked  apples  deck  the  green. 


166  E.  W.  Thomson 


And  corn  wave  tall  its  yellow  sheen. 
But,  bird,  bethink  you  well,  I  pray, 
Then  marches  winter  on  his  way. 
Ah,  zvinter — yes,  ah  yes — but  still, 
Hark!  sweetly  chimes  the  summer  rill, 
And  joy  is  here  and  life  is  strong. 
And  love  still  calls  upon  my  song. 
No,  Rossignol,  sing'  not  that  strain. 
Triumphant  'spite  of  all  the  pain, — 
She  cannot  hear  you,  Rossignol, 
She  does  not  pause  and  flush,  your  thrall. 
She  does  not  raise  that  slender  hand 
And,  poised,  lips  parted,  understand 
What  you  are  telling  of  the  years. 
Her  brown  eyes  soft  with  happy  tears, 
She  does  not  hear  a  note  of  all, 
Ah,  Rossignol!  ah,  Rossignol! 

But  skies  are  blue,  and  flowers  bloom, 
And  roses  breathe  the  old  perfume, 
And  here  the  murmuring  of  the  trees 
In  all  of  lovelier  mysteries — 
And  maybe  now  she  hears  thy  song 
Pouring  the  summer  rills  along, 
Listens  with  joy  that  still  to  me 
Remain  the  summer  time  and  thee. 

From  '  Peter  Ottawa ' 

COUNT  up  the  dead  by  fever,  shot  and  shell, 
Count  up  the  cripples,  count  all  tears  that  fell. 
Count  up  the  orphan  children  of  the  strife. 
Count  the  long-yearning  heart  of  parent,  wife. 
Count  the  vast  treasure,  count  the  labour's  waste 
Count  all  the  cost  of  passion's  headlong  haste. 
And  then  you'll  know  what  solid  nations  pay 
When  common  impulse  sweeps  good  sense  away. 
Flushing  the  millions  madly  all  at  once 
With  Wisdom  down,  and  up  the  tructdent  dunce. 


Ethelwyn  Wetherald 

'The  Last  Rob'ni  is  a)i  attractive  volume,  shon'ini^^  in  the 
cover  design  the  songster  most  closely  associated  7vith  the 
spring,  iclwse  ecstatic  chant  so  nearly  assimilates    the    poet's 

own  gift  of  oz'erfloz>.'ing,  uplifting  jnelody The 

salient  quality  of  Miss  JVetherald's  zvork  is  its  freshness  of 
feeling,  a  perennial  freshness,  roiezcable  as  spri)ig.  This  has 
a  setting  of  hannonioiis  form,  for  the  poet's  ear  is  delicately 
attuned  to  the  value  of  zcords,  both  as  to  the  sound  and  the 

meaning Dealing    for    the    most    part    zvith    the 

familiar  objects  of  nature  and  of  life,  she  reniai)is  the  poet, 
as  well  in  the  level  regio)is  of  her  subjects  as  i)i  the  elevated. 
.  .  .  .  Nozo  and  again  she  has  attained  the  supreme  cle- 
z'ation,  as  i)i  her  lovely  poems,  'Earth's  Silences',  'The  Patient 

Earth', 'The  Wind  of  Death' a)id 'The  Little  Noon' 

The  so)inets  are  an  important  part  of  the  z'olume,  and,  to  souie 
minds,  zi'ill  represent  the  niost  important  part.  Miss  JVether- 
ald's sonnets  are  flozcing  in  expression  and  harnionious  in 
thought;  some  are  beautiful. — Pharos,  in  'The  Globe." 

[i()7] 


168  Ethehvyii  Wetlierald 

AGXES  ETHELW'VN  W'ETHERALD  was  bom  of  Eng- 
lish-Quaker parents  at  Rockwood,  Ontario,  April  26th, 
1857.  Her  father  was  the  late  Rev.  William  WetheraUl, 
who  foimded  the  Rockwood  Academy  about  the  middle 
of  the  last  century,  and  was  its  principal  for  some  years.  He 
was  a  lover  of  good  Eng-lish,  spoken  and  written,  and  his 
talented  daughter  has  owed  much  to  his  careful  teaching. 
He  was  the  teacher  whom  the  late  James  J.  Hill,  the  railway 
magnate,  had  held  in  such  grateful  remembrance. 

Additional  education  was  received  by  ]\Iiss  W'etherald  at 
the  Friends"  Boarding  School,  I'nion  Springs,  N.Y.,  and  at 
Pickering  College. 

Miss  Wetherald  began  the  writing  of  poetry  later  in  life 
than  most  poets  and  her  first  book  of  verse,  The  House  of 
the  Trees  and  Other  Poems,  did  not  appear  until  1895.  This 
book  at  once  gave  her  high  rank  among  women  poets. 

Prior  to  this,  she  had  collaborated  with  G.  Mercer  Adam 
in  writing  and  publishing  a  novel.  An  Algonquin  Maiden, 
and  had  conducted  the  Woman's  Department  in  TJie  Globe, 
Toronto,  under  the  nam  dc  plume,  'Bel  Thistle waite.' 

In  1902,  appeared  her  second  volume  of  verse.  Tangled  in 
Stars,  and,  in  1904,  her  third  volume.  The  Radiajit  Road. 

In  the  autumn  of  1907,  a  collection  of  Miss  Wetherald's 
best  poems  was  issued,  entitled,  The  Last  Robin:  Lyrics  and 
Soiuiets.  It  was  warmly  welcomed  generally,  by  review- 
ers and  lovers  of  poetry.  The  many  exquisite  gems  therein 
so  appealed  to  Earl  Grey,  the  then  Governor-General  of  Can- 
ada, that  he  wrote  a  personal  letter  of  appreciation  to  the 
author,  and  purchased  twenty-five  copies  of  the  first  edition 
for  distribution  among  his   friends. 

For  years  Miss  Wetherald  has  resided  on  the  homestead 
farm,  near  the  villag'e  of  Fenwick,  in  Pelham  Township,  Wel- 
land  county,  Ontario,  and  there  in  the  midst  of  a  large  orchard 
and  other  rural  charms,  has  dreamed,  and  visioned,  and  sung, 
pouring  out  her  soul  in  rare,  sweet  songs,  with  the  naturalness 
of  a  bird.  And  like  a  bird  she  has  a  nest  in  a  large  willow  tree, 
cunningly  contrived  by  a  nature-loving  brother,  where  her 
muse  broods  contentedly,  intertwining  her  spirit  with  every 
aspect  of  the  beautiful  environment. 


Ethelwyn  Wetherald  169 

The  House  of  the  Trees 

OPE   your   doors   and   take  me   in, 
Spirit  of  the  wood  ; 
Wash  me  clean  of  dust  and  din, 
Clothe  me  in  your  mood. 

Take  me   from  the  noisy  light 

To  the  sunless  peace, 
WTiere   at   midday   standeth   Niglit, 

Signing  Toil's   release. 

All  your  dusky  twilight  stores 

To  my  senses  give ; 
Take  me  in  and  lock  the  doors, 

Show  me  how  to  live. 

Lift  your  leafy   roof  for  me, 

Part  your  yielding  walls, 
Let  me  wander  lingeringly 

Through  your  scented  halls. 

Ope  your  doors  and  take  me  in. 

Spirit  of  the  wood ; 
Take  me — make  me  next  of  kin 

To  your  leafy  brood. 

The  Screech-Owl 

HEARING  the  strange  night-piercing  sound 
Of  woe  that  strove  to  sing, 
I  followed  where  it  hid,  and  found 

A   small   soft-throated   thing. 
A  feathered  handful  of  gray  grief, 
Perched   by   the  year's   last   leaf. 

And  heeding  not  that  in  the  sky 

The  lamps  of  peace  were  lit, 
It  sent  abroad  that  sobbing  cry, 

And  sad  hearts  echoed  it. 
O  hush,  poor  grief,  so  gray,  so  wild, 
God  still  is  with   His  child! 


170  Ethelwyn  Wetherald 

My  Orders 

MY  orders  are  to  fight ; 
Then  if  I  bleed,  or  fail, 
Or  strongly  win,  what  matters  it? 
God   only    doth    prevail. 

The  servant  craveth  naught 
Except  to  serve  with  might. 

I  was  not  told  to  win  or  lose, — 
My  orders  are  to  fight. 


I 


If  One  Might  Live 

F  one  might  live  ten  years  among  the  leaves, 
Ten — only  ten — of  all  a  life's  long  day, 
Who  would  not  choose  a  childhood  'neath  the  eaves 
Low-sloping  to  some  slender  footpath  way? 

With  the  young  grass  about  his  childish  feet, 
And  the  young  lambs  within  his  ungrown  arms, 

And  every  steamlet  side  a  pleasure  seat 

Within  the  wide  day's  treasure-house  of  charms. 

To  learn  to  speak  while  young  birds  learned  to  sing, 
To  learn  to  run  e'en  as  they  learned  to  fly; 

With  unworn  heart  against  the  breast  of  spring. 
To  watch  the  moments  smile  as  they  went  by. 

Enroofed  with  apple  buds   afar  to  roam. 
Or  clover-cradled  on  the  murmurous  sod, 

To  drowse  within  the  blessed  fields  of  home, 
So  near  to  earth — so  very  near  to  God. 

How  could  it  matter— all  the  after  strife, 

The  heat,  the  haste,  the  inward  hurt,  the  strain, 

When  the  young  loveliness  and  sweet  of  life 
Came  flood-like  back  again  and  yet  again? 

When  best  begins  it  liveth  through  the  worst; 

O  happy  soul,  beloved  of  Memory, 
Whose  youth  was  joined  to  beauty  as  at  first 

The  morning  stars  were  wed  to  harmony! 


Ethehvyn  Wotherald  171 

Legacies 

UNTO  my  friends  I  give  my  thoug'hts, 
Unto  my  God  my  soul, 
Unto  my  foe  I  leave  my  love — 
These  are  of  life  the   whole. 

Nay,  there  is  something — a  trifle — left ; 

Who  shall  receive  this  dower? 
See,  Earth   Mother,   a   handful  of  dust — 

Turn  it  into  a  flower. 

The  Hay  Field 

WITH  slender  arms  outstretching  in  the  sun 
The  grass  lies  dead ; 
The  wind  walks  tenderly  and  stirs  not  one 
Frail  fallen  head. 

Of  baby  creepings  through  the  April   day 

Where  streamlets  wend, 
Of  child-like  dancing'  on  the  breeze  of  May, 

This  is  the  end. 

No  more  these  tiny  forms  are  bathed  in  dew^ 

No  more  they  reach 
To  hold  with  leaves  that  shade  them  from  the  blue 

A  whispered  speech. 

No  more  they  part  their  arms  and  wreathe  them  close 

Again,  to  shield 
Some  love-full  little  nest — a  dainty  house 

Hid  in  a  field. 

For  them  no  more  the  splendour  of  the  storm, 

The  fair  delights 
Of  moon  and  star-shine,  glimmering  faint  and  warm 

On  summer  nights. 

Their  little  lives  they  yield  in  summer  death. 

And  frequently 
Across  the  field  bereaved  their  dying  breath 

Is  brought  to  me. 


Ethelwyn  Wetherald 


The  Followers 

ONE  day  I  caught  up  with  my  angel,  she 
Who  calls  me  bell-like  from  a  sky-touched  tower. 
'Twas  in  my  roof-room,  at  the  stillest  hour 
Of  a  still,  sunless  day,  when  suddenly 
A  flood  of   deep  unreasoned  ecstasy 

Lifted  my  heart,  that  had  begun  to  cower, 
And  wrapped  it  in  a  flame  of  living  power. 
My  leader  said,  'Arise  and  follow  me.' 

Then  as  I  followed  gladly  I  beheld 

How  all  men  baffled,  burdened,  crossed  or  curst. 
Clutch  at  an  angel's  hem,  if  near  or  far ; 
One   not-to-be-resisted  voice,   deep-belled, 

Speaks  to  them,  and  of  those  we  call  the  worst, 
Lo,  each  poor  blackened  brow  strains  to  a  Star ! 

The  Wind  of  Death 

THE  wind  of  death,  that  softly  blows 
The  last  warm  petal  from  the  rose, 
The  last  dry  leaf  from  off  the  tree, 
To-night  has  come  to  breathe  on  me. 

There  was  a  time  I  learned  to  hate 

As  weaker  mortals  learn  to  love ; 
The  passion  held  me  fixed  as  fate. 
Burned  in  my  veins  early  and  late; 

But  now  a  wind  falls  from  above — 

The  wind  of  death,  that  silently 
Enshroudeth   friend  and  enemy. 

There  was  a  time  my  soul  was  thrilled  j 

By  keen  ambition's  v/hip  and  spur;  I 

My  master  forced  me  where  he  willed. 

And  with  his  power  my  life  was  filled ; 

But  now  the  old-time  pulses  stir  « 

How  faintly  in  the  wind  of  death. 
That  bloweth  lightly  as  a  breath. 


Ethel wyn  Wetherald  173 

And  once,  but  once,  at  I^ove's  dear  feet 

I  yielded  strength  and  life  and  heart; 
His  look  turned  bitter  into  sweet, 
His  smile  made  all  the  world  comi)lete; 
The  wind  blows  loves  like  leaves  apart — 

The  wind  of  death,  that  tenderly 
Is  blowing  'twixt  my  love  and  me. 

0  wind  of  death,  that  darkly  blows 
Each  separate  ship  of  human  woes 
Far  out  on  a  mysterious  sea, 

1  turn,  I  turn  my  face  to  thee ! 

The  Indigo  Bird 

WHEN  I  see, 
High  on  the  tip-top  twig  of  a  tree, 
Something  blue  by  the  breezes  stirred, 
But  so  far  up  that  the  blue  is  blurred. 
So  far  up  no  green  leaf  flies 
'Twixt  its  blue  and  the  blue  of  the  skies. 
Then  I  know,  ere  a  note  be  heard, 
That  is  naught  but  the  Indigo  bird. 

Blue  on  the  branch  and  blue  in  the  sky. 
And  naught  between  but  the  breezes  high, 
And  naught  so  blue  by  tiie  breezes  stirred 
As  the  deep,  deep  blue  of  the  Indigo  bird. 

When  I  hear 

A  song  like  a  bird  laugh,  blithe  and  clear. 
As  though  of  some  airy  jest  he  had  heard 
The  last  and  the  most  delightful  word ; 
A  laugh  as  fresh  in  the  August  haze 
As  it  was  in  the  full-voiced  April  days ; 
Then  I  know  that  my  heart  is  stirred 
By  the  laugh-like  song  of  the  Indigo  bird. 

Joy  on  the  branch  and  joy  in  the  sky. 
And  naught  between  but  the  breezes  high ; 
And  naught  so  glad  on  the  breezes  heard 
As  the  gay,  gay  note  of  the  Indigo  bird. 
10 


1 7  4  Ethel  wyn  Wether  aid 


At  Waking 

WHEN  I  shall  go  to  sleep  and  wake  again 
At  dawning  in  another  world  than  this, 
What  will  atone  to  me  for  all  I  miss? 
The  light  melodious  footsteps  of  the  rain, 
The  press  of  leaves  against  my  window-pane, 
The  sunset  wistfulness  and  morning  bliss, 
The  moon's  enchantment,  and  the  twilight  kiss 
Of  winds  that  wander  with  me  through  the  lane. 

Will  not  my  soul  remember  evermore 

The  earthly  winter's  hunger  for  the  spring. 
The  wet  sweet  cheek  of  April,  and  the  rush 
Of  roses  through  the  summer's  open  door ; 

The  feelings  that  the  scented  woodlands  bring 
At  evening  with  the  singing  of  the  thrush  ? 

The  Song  Sparrow's  Nest 

HERE  where  tumultuous  vines 
Shadow  the  porch  at  the  west. 
Leaf  with  tendril  entwines 

Under  a  song   sparrow's   nest. 

She   in   her  pendulous   nook 

Sways  with  the  warm  wind  tide, 

I  with  a  pen  or  a  book 

Rock  as  soft  at  her  side. 

Comrades  with  nothing  to  say, 
Neither  of  us  intrudes,  * 

But  through  the  lingering  day 
Each  of  us  sits  and  broods. 

Not  upon  hate  and  fear, 

Not  upon  grief  or  doubt. 
Not  upon  spite  or  sneer, 

These  we  could  never  hatch  out. 

She  broods  on  wonderful  things : 

Quickening  life  that  belongs 
To  a  heart  and  a  voice  and  wings, 

But — I'm  not  so  sure  of  my  song's! 


EthelwynWetlKM-ald  175 

Then   in   the   summer  niglit, 

When  I  awake  with  a  start, 
I  think  of  the  nest  at  the  iieight — 

The  leafy  height  of  my  lieart ; 

I   think  of  the   mother   love, 

Of  the  patient  wings  close  furled. 
Of  the  sky  that  broods  above, 

Of  the  Love  that  broods  on  the  world. 

Earth's  Silences 

HOW  dear  to  hearts  by  hurtful  noises  scarred 
The  stillness  of  the  many-leaved  trees. 
The  quiet  of  green  hills,  the  million-starred 

Tranquility  of  night,  the  endless  seas 
Of  silence  in  deep  wilds,  where  nature  broods 
In  large,  serene,  uninterrupted  moods. 

Oh,  but  to  work  as  orchards  work — bring  forth 
Pink  bloom,  green  bud,  red  fruit  and  yellow  leaf. 

As  noiselessly  as  gold  proclaims  its  worth, 
Or  as  the  pale  blade  turns  to  russet  sheaf, 

Or  splendid  sun  goes  down  the  glowing  west. 

Still  as  forgotten  memories  in  the  breast. 

How  without  panting  efifort,  painful  word. 
Comes  the  enchanting  miracle  of  snow. 

Making  a  sleeping  ocean.     None  have  heard 
Its  waves,  its  surf,  its  foam,  its  overflow ; 

For  unto  every  heart,  all  hot  and  wild, 

It  seems  to  say,  'Oh,  hush  thee!  hush,  my  child!' 

Mother  and  Child 

SAW  a  mother  holding 
Her  play-worn  baby  son. 
Her  pliant  arms  enfolding 
The  drooping  little  one. 

Her  lips  were  made  of  sweetness. 

And  sweet  the  eyes  above ; 
With  infantile  completeness 

He   yielded   to  her   Kne. 


I 


1 7  6  E thelTN^Ti  Wetherald 

And  I  who  saw  the  heaving- 
Of  breast  to  dimpling  cheek, 

Have  felt,  within,  the  weaving 
Of  thoughts  I  cannot  speak; 

Have  felt  myself  the  nestling, 
All  strengthless,  love-enisled ; 

Have  felt  myself  the  mother 
Abrood  above  her  child. 

Prodigal  Yet 

MUCK  of  the  sty,  reek  of  the  trough, 
Blackened  my  brow  where  all  might  see, 
Yet  while  I  was  a  great  way  off 

My  Father  ran  with  compassion  for  me. 

He  put  on  my  hand  a  ring  of  gold, 

(There's  no  escape  from  a  ring,  they  say) 

He  put  on  my  neck  a  chain  to  hold 

My  passionate  spirit  from  breaking  away. 

He  put  on  my  feet  the  shoes  that  miss 
No  chance  to  tread  in  the  narrow  path ; 

He  pressed  on  my  lips  the  burning  kiss 
That  scorches  deeper  than  fires  of  wrath. 

He  filled  my  body  with  meat  and  wine, 

He  flooded  my  heart  with  love's  white  light; 

Yet  deep  in  the  mire,  with  sensual  swine, 
I  long — God  help  me ! —  to  wallow  to-night. 

Muck  of  the  sty,  reek  of  the  trough. 
Blacken  my  soul  where  none  may  see. 

Father,  I  yet  am  a  long  way  oflf — 

Come  quickly.  Lord  !   Have  compassion  on  me ! 

Pluck 

THANK  God  for  pluck — unknown  to  slaves — 
The  self  ne'er  of  its  Self  bereft. 
Who,  when  the  right  arm's  shattered,  waves 
The  good  flag  with  the  left. 


William  Henry  Drummond 

In  the  great  family  of  modern  poets,  of  zcliicli  he  is  undoubt- 
edly a  member,  Dr.  Drummond  takes  the  same  place  that 
would  be  accorded  in  the  family  of  artists  to  the  master  of 
'gotre':  that  is  to  say,  he  depicts  with  rare  fidelity  and  affec- 
tion a  certain  type,  makes  it  completely  his  ozcn  and  then- 
presents  us  with  the  finished  picture.  The  habitant  on  his 
little  farm,  the  I'oyageur  on  wild  riz'er  ways  and  the  coureurs 
de  bois  are  all  immortalized  in  songs  that  for  humour,  pathos 
and  picturesqueness  it  i\.'ould  be  hard  to  e.vcel.  They  are  in- 
herently native  to  the  only  section  of  Canada  that  ca)i  conscien- 
tiously be  called  'quaint,'  and  zvill  alzvays  remain  among  our 
valuable  historic  and  human   dociDuents. — Kathkrine   Halk. 

/  i)tcliiie  to  think  Drunnnond  zcas  nez'er  a  bookish  nuvi. 
.  .  .  .  lie  zeas  plainly  the  kind  of  man  to  be  fascinated  by 
any  noz'cl  phase  of  the  z^'ild  and  Z'agabondish     ....     his 

eye  zcas  ez'cr  alert  for  racial  idiosy)icrasy -Imong 

the  poets   of   the   British    Empire,    he   holds   a   place    unique. 
— Neil  Mu.nko.  in  liis  Aii]irociation  of  Drummond. 

(177J 


1"^  William  TTein-y  Dnnmnond 

DK.  WIU.IA.M  11^:^■R^■  IMUIMMOXD,  tUc  poet  of  the 
habitant,  was  born  in  ilie  village  of  Mohill,  Connl\- 
l.citrini.  Ireland,  on  the  loth  of  April,  1854.  Shortl} 
afterwards,  his  father,  an  officer  in  the  Royal  Irish  Constabu- 
lary, moved  to  the  villai^e  of  Tavvley,  on  the  Bay  of  Donegal, 
it  was  in  this  village  that  the  future  poet's  education  began. 

While  he  was  still  a  boy,  the  family  emigrated  to  Canada, 
where  the  father  in  a  few  months  died,  leaving  but  limited 
means  for  the  support  of  his  wife  and  children. 

William  Henry  soon  found  it  necessary  to  leave  school,  to 
earn  what  he  could  to  help  provide  for  the  family.  Having 
learned  telegraphy,  he  was  employed  at  Borde  a  Ploulfe,  a 
small  village  on  the  Riviere  des  Prairies,  near  Montreal.  It 
was  here  that  he  first  observed  the  speech  and  the  customs 
of  the  habitant,  whom,  with  the  kindliest  intent,  he  has  so 
faithfully   portrayed. 

In  time,  the  family  exchequer  permitted  him  to  attend  the 
High  School  in  Montreal,  later,  McGill  University,  and  finally, 
Bishop's  College,  where  he  graduated  in  medicine  in  1884 
Dr.  Drummond  practised  his  profession  for  four  years  in  the 
district  about  Brome,  and  then  returned  to  the  City  of  Mon- 
treal, where  he  continued  to  reside  until  his  lamented  death 
in  1907. 

In  1894,  he  married  Miss  May  Harvey,  of  Savannah 
la  Mar,  Jamaica.  In  Mrs.  Drummond's  memoir  of  her 
husband,  she  relates  that  he  read  with  many  misgiving's,  one 
of  his  earliest  poems,  'Le  Vieux  Temps,'  at  a  dinner  of  the 
Shakespeare  Club,  of  Montreal,   and   further  says : 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  long  series  of  triumphs  of  a  like 
nature,  triumphs  which  owed  little  to  elocutionary  art,  much  to  the 
natural  gift  of  a  voice  rare  alike  in  strength,  quality  and  variety 
of  tone,  but,  most  of  all  to  the  fact  that  the  characters  he  delineated 
were  not  mere  creations  of  a  vivid  imagination.  They  were  portraits 
tendcrlj'-  drawn  by  the  master  hand  of  a  true  artist,  and  one  who 
knew    and    loved    the    originals. 

The  Habitant  and  other  French-Canadian  Poems  was  pub- 
lished in  1898,  anfl  the  jjopularity  of  the  book  was  such  as 
to  bring  the  poet  fame,  and  a  substantial  income  in  royalties. 
It  was  followed  by  Johnnie  Courteau  and  other  Poems  in  1901  : 
by   Phil-o' -Rum's   Canoe  and   Madeleine   I'ercheres   in    1903; 


William  Henry  Dnimmoiid 


17!) 


and  by  The  Voyageur  and  other  Poems  in  1905.  His  unpub- 
lished poems  were  edited  and  issued  with  the  afore-mentioned 
memoir,  by  his  wife,  in  1909;  and,  in  1912,  a  complete  and 
beautiful  edition  of  his  works,  in  one  volume,  was  published 
by  G.  T.  Putnam's  Sons,  of  New  York. 

For  several  years  he  was  Professor  of  Medical  Jurisprudence 
in  his  Alma  Mater.  In  1902,  the  University  of  Toronto  con- 
ferred on  him  the  degree  of  LL.D.  Subsequently  he  was 
elected  Fellow  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Literature  of  England, 
and,  later,  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Canada. 

Much  of  the  last  two  years  of  his  life.  Dr.  Drummond  spent 
in  the  Cobalt  district,  where  he  had  mining  interests.  There 
he  was  stricken  with  cerebral  hemorrhage  and  died  in  the 
morning  of  April  6th,  1907.  Probably  no  other  Canadian  poet 
has  been  so  widely  mourned. 

The  Wreck  of  the  'Julie  Plante' 

A  Legend  of  Lac  St.  Pierre 

ON  wan  dark  night  on  I^c  St.  Pierre, 
De  win'  she  blow,  blow,  blow. 
An'  de  crew  of  de  wood  scow  Julie  Plant e 

Got  scar't  an'  run  below — 
For  de  win'  she  blow  lak  hurricane, 

Bimeby   she   blow   some   more. 
An'  de  scow  bus'  up  on  Lac  St.  Pierre 
Wan  arpent  from  de  shore. 

De  captinne  walk  on  de  fronte  deck, 

An'  walk  de  hin'  deck  too — 
He  call  de  crew  from  up  de  hole. 

He  call   de  cook  also. 
De  cook   she's  name  was  Rosie, 

She   come    from    Montreal. 
Was  chambre  maid  on  lumber  barge. 

On  de  Grande  Lachine  Canal. 

De  win'  she  blow  from  nor'-eas'-wes', 

De  sout'  win'  she  blow  too, 
W'en  Rosie  cry,  'Mon  cher  captinne, 

Mon  cher,  w'at  I  shall  do?' 


180  William  Henry  Drummond 


Den   de  captinne  t'row   de  beeg  ankerre, 

But  still  de  scow  she  dreef, 
De  crew  he  can't  pass  on  de  shore, 

Becos  he  los'  hees  skeef. 

De  night  was  dark  lak  wan  black  cat, 

De  wave  run  high  an'  fas', 
Wen  de  captinne  tak'  de  Rosie  girl 

An'  tie  her  to  de  mas'. 
Den  he  also  tak'   de  life  preserve, 

An'   jomp  off  on   de   lak', 
An'  say,  'Good-bye,  ma  Rosie  dear, 

I  do  drown  for  your  sak'.' 

Nex'  morning  very  early 

'Bout   ha'f    pas'    two-t'ree-four — 
De  captinne — scow — an'  de  poor  Rosie 

Was   corpses   on   de   shore, 
For  de  win'  she  blow  lak  hurricane, 

Bimeby  she  blow  some  more, 
An'  de  scow  bus'  up  on  Lac  St.  Pierre, 

Wan  arpent  from  de  shore. 

Moral, 

Now  all  good  wood  scow  sailor  man, 

Tak'  warning  by  dat  storm, 
An'  go  an'  marry  some  nice  French  girl 

An'  leev  on  wan  beeg  farm. 
De  win'  can  blow  lak  hurricane. 

An'  s'pose  she  blow  some  more. 
You  can't  get  drown  on  Lac  St.  Pierre 

So  long  you  stay  on  shore. 

Little  Bateese 

YOU  bad  leetle  boy,  not  moche  you  care 
How  busy  you're  kipin'  your  poor  gran'pere 
Tryin'  to  stop  you  ev'ry  day 
Chasin'  de  hen  aroun'  de  hay — 
W'y  don't  you  geev'  dem  a  chance  to  lay? 
Leetle  Bateese! 


William  Henry  Drummond  ^^' 

Off  on  de  fiel'  you   foller  de  plough 
Den  w'en  you're  tire  you  scare  de  cow 
Sickin'  de  dog  till  dey  jomp  de  wall 
So  de  milk  ain't  good  for  not'ing  at  all — 
An'  you're  only  five  an'  a  half  dis  fall, 
Leetle  Bateese ! 

Too  sleepy  for  savin'  de  prayer  to-night? 
Never  min',  I  s'pose  it'll  be  all  right 
Say  dem  to-morrow — ah !   dere   he  go ! 
Fas'  asleep  in  a  minute  or  so — 
And  he'll  stay  lak  dat  till  de  rooster  crow, 
Leetle  Bateese ! 

Den  wake  us  up  right  away  toute  suite 
Lookin'  for  somet'ing  more  to  eat, 
Makin'  me  t'ink  of  dem  long  leg  crane 
Soon  as  dey  swaller,  dey  start  again, 
I  wonder  your  stomach  don't  get  no  pain, 
Leetle  Bateese ! 

But  see  heem  now  lyin'  dere  in  bed, 
Look  at  de  arm  onderneat'  hees  head ; 
If  he  grow  lak  dat  till  he's  twenty  year 
I  bet  he'll  be  stronger  dan  Louis  Cyr 
An'  beat  all  de  voyageurs  leevin'  here, 
Leetle  Bateese! 

Jus'  feel  de  muscle  along  hees  back, 
Won't  geev'  heem  moche  bodder  for  carry  pack 
On  de   long  portage,   any   size  canoe. 
Dere's  not  many  t'ing  dat  boy  won't   do, 
For  he's  got  double-joint  on  hees  body  too, 
Leetle  Bateese ! 

But  leetle  Bateese!  please  don't  forget 
We  rader  you're  stayin'  de  small  boy  yet, 
So  chase  de  chicken  an'  mak'  dem  scare, 
An'  do  w'at  you  lak  wit'  your  old  gran'pere 
For  w'en  you're  beeg  feller  he  won't  be  dere — 
Leetle  Bateese ! 


182  William  Henry  Drummond 


Johnnie  Courteau 

JOHNNIE  COURTEAU  of  de  mountain, 
Johnnie  Courteau  of  de  hill, 
Dat  was  de  boy  can  shoot  de  gun, 
Dat  was  de  boy  can  jomp  an'  run. 
An'  it's  not  very  offen  you  ketch  heem  still, 
Johnnie  Courteau! 

Ax    dem    along   de   reever. 
Ax  dem  along  de  shore, 
Who  was  de  mos'  bes'  fightin'  man 
From   Managance  to   Shaw-in-i-gan, 
De  place  w'ere  de  great  beeg  rapide  roar? 
Johnnie  Courteau ! 

Sam'  t'ing  on  ev'ry  shaintee 
Up  on  de  Mekinac, 
Who  was  de  man  can  walk  de  log, 
Wen  w'ole  of  de  reever  she's  black  wit'  fog, 
An'  carry  de  beeges'  load  on  hees  back? 
Johnnie  Courteau! 

On  de  rapide  you  want  to  see  heem 
If  de  raf  she's  swingin'  roun', 
An'  he's  yellin',  'Hooraw,  Bateese!  good  man!' 
W'y  de  oar  come  double  on  hees  han' 
W'en  he's  makin'  dat  raf  go  flyin'  down, 
Johnnie  Courteau! 

An'  Tete  de  Boule  chief  can  tole  you 
De  feller  w'at  save  hees  life, 
W'en  big  moose  ketch  heem  up  a  tree, 
Who's  shootin'  dat  moose  on  de  head,  sapree! 
An'  den  run  off  wit'  hees  Injun  wife? 
Johnnie  Courteau! 

An'   he  only  have  pike  pole  wit'  heem 
On  Lac  a  la  Tortue 

W'en  he  meet  de  bear  comin'  down  de  hill, 
But  de  bear  very  soon  is  get  hees  fill! 
An'  he  sole  dat  skin  for  ten  dollar  too, 
Johnnie  Courteau! 


William  Henry  Drummond  1*^3 

Oh,  he  never  was  scare  for  no'tinfif 
Lak  de  ole  coureurs  de  bois, 
But  vv'en  he's  gettin'  hees  winter  pay 
De  bes'  t'ing  sure  is  kip  out  de  way, 
For  he's  goin'  right  off  on  de  Hip  Hooraw ! 
Johnnie  Courteau ! 

Den  pulHn'  hees  sash  aroun'  heem 
He  dance  on  hees  botte  sauvage 
An'  shout,  'All  aboar'  if  you  want  to  fight!' 
Wall !  you  never  can  see  de  finer  sight 
Wen  he  go  lak  dat  on  de  w'ole  village ! 
Johnnie  Courteau ! 

But  Johnnie   Courteau  get  marry 
On  Philomene  Beaurepaire, 
She's  nice  leetle  girl  was  run  de  school 
On  w'at  you  call  parish  of  Sainte  Ursule 
An*  he  see  her  off  on  de  pique-nique  dere, 
Johnnie  Courteau! 

Den   somet'ing  come   over  Johnnie 
Wen  he  marry  on  Philomene, 
For  he  stay  on  de  farm  de  w'ole  year  roun'. 
He  chop  de  wood  an'  he  plough  de  groun' 
An'  he's  quieter  feller  was  never  seen, 
Johnnie  Courteau! 

An'   ev'ry  wan   feel  astonish, 
From  La  Tuque  to   Shaw-in-i-gan, 
Wen  day  hear  de  news  was  goin'  aroun', 
Along  on  de  reever  up  an'  down, 
How  wan  leetle  woman  boss  dat  beeg  man, 
Johnnie  Courteau ! 

He  never  come  out  on  de  evening 

No  matter  de  hard  we  try, 

'Cos  he  stay  on  de  kitchen  an'  sing  hees  song, 

*A  la  claire  fontaine, 
M'en  allant  promener, 
J'ai  trouve  I'eau  si  belle 
Que  je  m'y  suis  baigner! 


184  William  Henry  Drummond 

Lui  y'a  longtemps  que  je  t'aime 
Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai.' 

Rockin'  de  cradle  de  w'ole  nig-ht  long- 
Till  baby's  asleep  on  de  sweet  bimeby, 
Johnnie  Courteau! 

An'  de  house,  wall !  I  wish  you  see  it, 
De  place  she's  so  nice  an'  clean, 
Mus'  wipe  your  foot  on  de  outside  door, 
You're  dead  man  sure  if  you  spit  on  de  floor. 
An'  he  never  say  not'ing  on  Philomene, 
Johnnie  Courteau! 

An'  Philomene  watch  de  monee 
An'  put  it  all  safe  away 
On  very  good  place ;  I  dunno  w'ere. 
But  anyhow  nobody  see  it  dere, 
So  she's  buyin'  new  farm  de  noder  day, 
Madame;  Courteau ! 

De  Nice  Leetle  Canadienne 

YOU  can  pass  on  de  worl'  w'erever  you  lak, 
Tak'  de  steamboat  for  go  Angleterre, 
Tak'  car  on  de  State,  an'  den  you  come  back, 

An'  go  all  de  place,  I  don't  care — 
Ma  frien',  dat's  a  fack,  I  know  you  will  say, 

Wen  you  come  on  dis  contree  again, 
Dere's  no  girl  can  touch,  w'at  we  see  ev'ry  day, 
De  nice   leetle   Canadienne. 

Don't  matter  how  poor  dat  girl  she  may  be. 

Her  dress  is  so  neat  an'  so  clean, 
Mos'  ev'rywan  t'ink  it  was  mak'  on  Paree, 

An'  she  wear  it,  wall!  jus'  lak  de  Queen. 
Den  come  for  fin'  out  she  is  mak'  it  herse'f. 

For  she  ain't  got  moche  monee  for  spen'. 
But  all  de  sam'  tam,  she  was  never  get  lef, 

Dat   nice    leetle    Canadienne. 

Wen  'un  vrai  Canayen'  is  mak'  it  mariee. 
You  t'ink  he  go  leev  on  beeg  flat 


William  Henry  Drummond  i8r> 

An"   b«.)ddcr  liese'f  all  do  tam,  ni^ht  an'   day, 
Wit'  housemaid,  an'  cook,  an'  all  dat? 

Not  moche,  ma  dear  frien',  he  tak'  de  maison, 
Cos'  only  nine  dollar  or  ten, 

Were  he  leev  lak  blood  rooster,  an'  save  de  I'argent, 
Wit'  hees  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 

I  marry  ma  famme  w'en  I'm  jus'  twenty  year, 

An'   now  we  got  fine   familee, 
Dat  skip  roun'  de  place  lak  leetle  small  deer, 

No   smarter  crowd   you   never   see — 
An'  I  t'ink  as  I  watch  dem  all  chasin'  about. 

Four  boy  an'  six  girl,  she  mak'  ten, 
Dat's  help  mebbe  kip  it,  de  stock  from  run  out, 

Of  de  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 

O  she's  quick,  an'  she's  smart,  an'  got  plaintee  heart, 

If  you  know  correc'  way  go  about, 
An'  if  you  don'  know,  she  soon  tole  you  so, 

Den  tak'  de  firs'  chance  an'  get  out ; 
But  if  she  love  you,  I  spik  it  for  true, 

She  will  mak'  it  more  beautiful  den. 
An'  sun  on  de  sky  can't  shine  lak  de  eye 

Of  dat  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 

Madeleine  Vercheres 

I'VE  told  you  many  a  tale,  my  child,  of  the  old  heroic  days 
Of  Indian  wars  and  massacres,  of  villages  ablaze 
With  savag-e  torch,  from  Ville  Marie  to  the  ]\Iission  of  Trois 

Rivieres 
But  never  have  I  told  you  yet,  of  Madeleine  Vercheres. 

Summer  had  come  with  its  blossoms,  and  gaily  the  robin  sang 
And  deep  in  the  forest  arches  the  axe  of  the  woodman  rang. 
Again  in  the  waving  meadows,  the  sun-browned  farmers  met 
And  out  on  the  green  St.  Lawrence,  the  fisherman  spread  his 
net. 

And  so  through  the  pleasant  season,  till  the  days  of  October 

came 
When  children  wrought  with  their  parents,  and  even  the  old 

and  lame 


186  William  Henry  Drummond 

With  tottering  frames  and  footsteps,  their  feeble  labours  lent 
At  the  gathering  of  the  harvest,  le  bon  Dieu  himself  had  sent. 

For  news  there  was  none  of  battle,   from  the   forts  on  the 

Richelieu 
To  the  gates  of  the  ancient  city,  where  the  flag  of  King  Louis 

flew, 
All  peaceful  the  skies  hung  over  the  seigneurie  of  Vercheres, 
Like  the  calm  that  so  often  cometh,  ere  the  hurricane  rends 

the  air. 

And  never  a  thought  of  danger  had  the  Seigneur  sailing  away. 
To  join  the  soldiers  of  Carignan,  where  down  at  Quebec  they 

lay, 
But  smiled  on  his  little  daughter,  the  maiden  Madeleine, 
And  a  necklet  of  jewels  promised  her,  when  home  he  should 

come  again. 

And  ever  the  days  passed  swiftly,  and  careless  the  workmen 
grew 

For  the  months  they  seemed  a  hundred,  since  the  last  war-bugle 
blew. 

Ah!  little  they  dreamt  on  their  pillows,  the  farmers  of  Ver- 
cheres, 

That  the  wolves  of  the  southern  forest  had  scented  the  harvest 
fair. 

Like  ravens  they  quickly  gather,  like  tigers  they  watch  their 

prey. 
Poor  people!  with  hearts  so  happy,  they  sang  as  they  toiled 

away. 
Till    the    murderous    eyeballs    glistened,    and    the    tomahawk 

leaped  out 
And  the  banks  of  the  green  St.  Lawrence  echoed  the  savage 

shout. 
'O  mother  of  Christ  have  pity,'  shrieked  the  women  in  despair 
'This   is   no  time   for  praying,'   cried   the   young   Madeleine 

Vercheres, 
'Aux  armes !  aux  armes !  les  Iroquois !  quick  to  your  arms  and 

guns. 
Fight  for  your  God  and  country  and  the  lives  of  the  innocent 

ones.' 


William  Henry  Druramond  i^^ 

And  she  sped  like  a  deer  of  the  mountain,  when  beagles  press 

close  behind 
And  the  feet  that  would  follow  after,  must  be  swift  as  the 

prairie  wind. 
Alas !  for  the  men  and  women,  and  little  ones  that  day 
For  the  road  it  was  long  and  weary,  and  the  fort  it  was  far 

away. 

But  the  fawn  had  outstripped  the  hunters,  and  the  palisades 
drew  near, 

And  soon  from  the  inner  gateway  the  war-bugle  rang  out  clear  ; 

Gallant  and  clear  it  sounded,  wMth  never  a  note  of  despair, 

'Twas  a  soldier  of  France's  challenge,  from  the  young  Made- 
leine Vercheres. 

'And  this  is  my  little  garrison,  my  brothers  Louis  and  Paul  ? 
With  soldiers  two — and  a  cripple?  may  the  \'irgin  pray  for  us 

all. 
But  we've  powder  and  guns  in  plenty,  and  we'll  fight  to  the 

latest  breath 
And  if  need  be  for  God  and  country,  die  a  brave  soldier's  death. 

Load  all  the  carabines  quickly,  and  whenever  you  sight  the  foe 
Fire  from  the  upper  turret,  and  the  loopholes  down  below. 
Keep  up  the  fire,  brave  soldiers,  though  the  fight  may  be  fierce 

and  long 
And  they'll  think  our  little  garrison  is  more  than  a  hundred 

strong.' 

So  spake  the  maiden  Madeleine,  and  she  roused  the  Norman 

blood 
That  seemed  for  a  moment  sleeping,  and  sent  it  like  a  fiood 
Through  every  heart  around  her,  and  they   fought  the  red 

Iroquois 
As  fought  in  the  old  time  battles,  the  soldiers  of  Carignan. 

And  they  say  the  black  clouds  gathered,  and  a  tempest  swept 

the  sky 
And  the  roar  of  the  thunder  mingled  with  the  forest  tiger's  cry, 
But  still  the  garrison  fought  on,  while  the  lightning's  jagged 

spear 


188  William  Henry  Drummond 

Tore  a  hole  in  the  night's  dark  curtain,  and  showed  them  a 
foeman  near. 

And  the  sun  rose  up  in  the  morning,  and  the  colour  of  blood 

was  he, 
Gazing  down  from  the  heavens  on  the  little  company. 
'Behold!  my  friends!'  cried  the  maiden,  ''tis  a  warning  lest 

we  forget, 
Though  the  night  saw  us  do  our  duty,  our  work  is  not  finished 

yet.' 

And  six  days  followed  each  other,  and  feeble  her  limbs  became 

Yet  the  maid  never  sought  her  pillow,  and  the  flash  of  the 
carabines'  flame 

Illumined  the  powder-smoked  faces,  aye,  even  when  hope  seem- 
ed gone 

And  she  only  smiled  on  her  comrades,  and  told  them  to  fight, 
fight  on. 

And  she  blew  a  blast  on  the  bugle,  and  lo!  from  the  forest 

black. 
Merrily,  merrily  ringing,  an  answer  came  pealing  back. 
Oh!  pleasant  and  sweet  it  sounded,  borne  on  the  morning  air, 
For  it  heralded  fifty  soldiers,  with  gallant  De  la  Monniere. 

And  when  he  beheld  the  maiden,  the  soldier  of  Carignan, 
And  looked  on  the  little  garrison  that  fought  the  red  Iroquois 
And  held  their  own  in  the  battle,  for  six  long  weary  days. 
He  stood  for  a  morrlent  speechless,  and  marvelled  at  woman's 
ways. 

Then   he   beckoned   the   men   behind   him   and   steadily   they 

advance, 
And,  with  carabines  uplifted,  the  veterans  of  France 
Saluted  the  brave  young  Captain  so  timidly  standing  there 
And  they  fired  a  volley  in  honour  of  Madeleine  Vercheres. 

And  this,  my  dear,  is  the  story  of  the  maiden  Madeleine. 
God  grant  that  we  in  Canada  may  never  see  again 
Such  cruel  wars  and  massacres,  in  waking  or  in  dream, 
As  our  fathers  and  mothers  saw,  my  child,  in  the  days  of  the 
old  regime. 


Jean  Blewelt 

.\J IS  Blezvett  is  a  n'ouiaii's  poet.  She  deals  leitli  homely  sub- 
jects ill  a  homely  zvay.  She  does  not  attempt  icild  flights  of 
rhapsody  or  deep  philosophical  problems.  It  is  an  everyday 
sort  of  poetry,  simple  in  theme  and  treatment,  unpretentious, 

domestic,  kindly,  humorous  and  natural Perhaps 

it  is  because  of  this  very  simplicity  of  theme  ami  treatment 
that  Mrs.  Blewett's  zvritings,  both  in  prose  and  poetry,  are  so 
popular  among  a  very  large  class  of  the  Canadian  public. 
.     .     .  In  sentiment  and  in  morals  her  poems  are  zvhole- 

some   and,    to   use   a  feminine   adjective,    'szceet' 

Mrs.  Blezvett  is  perhaps  the  most  conspicuous  example  in 
Canada  of  the  class  of  zcriters  zvho  try  to  bring  the  plain 
people  into  touch  zvith  the  highest  ideals  that  arc  frequently 
most  effectively  taught  in  verse.  Her  lessons  are  of  self- 
denial,  and  of  the  pozcer  of  love  to  mould  men  and  zi'omen. 
— 'Globe  Magazine.' 


riSM] 


19<^  Jean  Blewett 


JEAX  liLEW'ETT  was  born  at  Scotia,  Lake  Erie,  Ontario, 
November  4th,  1872.  Her  parents,  John  and  Janet  (Macln- 
tyre)  McKishnie,  were  both  natives  of  Argyllshire.  She  was 
educated  at  the  local  public  school  and  at  the  St.  Thomas  Colle- 
giate Institute.  In  1889  she  married  Mr.  Bassett  Blewett,  a 
native  of  Cornwall,  England. 

Through  her  mother  she  is  related  to  Duncan  Ban  Mac- 
Intyre,  the   famous  Gaelic  poet. 

While  still  in  her  teens,  Mrs.  Blewett's  poems,  short  stories 
and  articles  in  the  public  press  and  in  magazines  began  to 
attract  attention ;  and,  in  1890,  she  published  a  novel.  Out  of 
the  Depths.  Heart  Songs,  a  collection  of  her  verse,  appeared 
in  1897,  and  at  once  became  popular ;  and  The  Cornflower 
and  Other  Poems,  issued  in  1906,  increased  the  author's  fame 
and  popularity.  One  of  her  poems,  'Spring'  captured  the 
prize  of  six  hundred  dollars,  offered  for  the  best  poem  on 
this  trite  subject,  by  the  Chicago  Times-Herald. 

In  1915,  Mary  Josephine  Trotter  contributed  an  interesting 
article  on  Jean  Blewett  to  Ez'eryzcoman's  World,  from  which 
is  quoted : 

A    BARD   OF    THE   COMMON    THINGS 

Jean  Blewett  has  neither  refused  to  grow  up,  nor  has  she  re- 
quired to  'think  back'  to  experience  joy  as  quick  as  childhood's  in  the 
springing  blade  and  the  spreading  leaf,  and  also  in  the  realm  of 
human  nature.  All  this  I  know  from  her  voice  and  her  expression  as 
she  showed  me  the  view  from  the  window  in  her  bedroom,  in  which 
she  has  been  a  prisoner  since  November. 

Prisoner?  The  word  is  not  a  propos  exactly.  Not  even  the  pangs 
of  physical  sufifering  have  been  able  to  bind  the  imagination  of  a 
woman  profoundly  in  love  with  life  and  able  to  put  her  passion  into 
writing.  For  months  Mrs.  Blewett  has  been  busy  on  a  novel,  having 
for  its  setting  the  Peace  River  country  in  which  wild  and  romantic 
district  she  camped  with  her  husband  and  son  for  weeks  last  summer. 

She  was  married  early — at  sixteen — and  the  first  verses  she  ever 
wrote  and  for  which  she  was  paid  by  Frank  Leslie's  Monthly,  were 
a  lullaby  to  her  own  baby 

Jean  Blewett  is  one  of  a  literary  family.  Her  brother,  Mr.  Arch- 
ibald McKishnie,  is  frequently  a  contributor  to  Canadian  publications, 
and  a  younger  sister  is  winning  success  as  a  journalist  in  Detroit, 
Michigan. 

For  years  Mrs.  Blewett  has  been  a  special  writer  for  the  Globe 
and  other  household  publications,  so  that  her  name  has  become  familiar 
to  a  very  large  and  appreciative  public.  She  delights  to  write  of 
'the    common    things,'    would    rather    be    sympathetic    than    startling. 


Jean  Elewett  '»i 

Chore  Time 

WHEN  I'm  at  gran'dad's  on  the  farm, 
I  hear  along  'bout  six  o'clock, 
Just  when  I'm  feelin'  snug  an'  warm, 
'Ho,  Bobby,  come  and  feed  your  stock.' 

I  jump  and  get  into  my  clothes; 

It's   dark   as   pitch,   an'    shivers    run 
All  up  my  back.    Now,  I  suppose 

Not  many  boys  would  think  this  fun. 

But  when  we  get  out  to  the  barn 

The  greedy  pigs  begin  to  squeal, 
An'  I  throw  in  the  yellow  corn, 

A  bushel  basket  to  the  meal. 

Then  I  begin  to  warm  right  up, 

I  whistle  'Yankee  Doodle'  through. 
An'  wrastle  w-ith  the  collie  pup — 

And  sometimes  gran'dad  whistles  too. 

The  cow-shed  door,  it  makes  a  din 

Each  time  we  swing  it  open  wide; 
I   run  an'   flash  the  lantern  in. 

There  stand  the  shorthorns  side  by  side. 

Their  breathin'  makes  a  sort  of  cloud 

Above  their  heads — there's  no  frost  here. 

'My  beauties,'  gran'dad  says  out  loud, 
'You'll  get  your  breakfasts,  never  fear.' 

When  up  I  climb  into  the  loft 

To  fill  their  racks  with  clover  hay, 
Their  eyes,  all  sleepy  like  and  soft, 

A  heap  of  nice  things  seem  to  say. 

The  red  ox  shakes  his  curly  head. 

An'  turns  on  me  a  solemn  face : 
I  know  he's  awful  glad  his  shed 

Is  such  a  warm  and  smelly  place. 

An'  last  of  all  the  stable  big. 

With  harness  hanging  on  each  door, — 


192  Jean  Blewett 


I   always   want  to  dance   a  jig 
On  that  old  musty,  dusty  floor. 

It  seems  so  good  to  be  alive, 

An'  tendin'  to  the  sturdy  grays, 
The  sorrels,  and  old  Prince, — that's  five — 

An'  Lightfoot  with  her  coaxing  ways. 

My  gran'dad  tells  me  she  is  mine, 

An'  I'm  that  proud!     I  braid  her  mane. 

An'   smooth  her  sides  until  they  shine. 
An'  do  my  best  to  make  her  vain. 

When  we  have  measured  oats   for  all. 
Have  slapped  the  grays  upon  the  flanks, 

An'  tried  to  pat  the  sorrels  tall. 

An'  heard  them  whinny  out  their  thanks. 

We  know  it's  breakfast  time,  and  go 
Out  past  the  yellow  stacks  of  straw. 

Across  the  creek  that  used  to  flow. 
But  won't  flow  now  until  a  thaw. 

Behind  the  trees  the  sky  is  pink. 

The  snow  drifts  by  in  fat  white  flakes. 

My  gran'dad  says :  'Well,  Bob,  I  think 
There  comes  a  smell  of  buckwheat  cakes.' 

For  He  Was  Scotch,  and  So  Was  She 

THEY  were  a  couple  well  content 
With  what  they  earned  and  what  they  spent. 
Cared  not  a  whit  for  style's  decree — 
For  he  was  Scotch,  and  so  was  she. 

And  oh,  they  loved  to  talk  of  Burns — 
Dear  blithesome,  tender  Bobby  Burns! 
They  never  wearied  of  his  song, 
He  never  sang  a  note  too  strong. 
One   little    fault   could    neither   see — 
For  he  was  Scotch,  and  so  was  she. 

They  loved  to  read  of  men  who  stood 
And  gave  for  country  life  and  blood, 


Jean  Blewett  '^'^ 


\Vlio  held  their  faith  so  grand  a  thing 
They  scorned  to  yield  it  to  a  king. 
Ah,  proud  of  such  they  well  might  be — 
For  he  was  Scotch,  and  ?o  was  she. 

From  neighbours'  broils  they  kept  away ; 
No  liking  for  such  things  had  they, 
And  oh,  each  had  a  canny  mind, 
And  could  be  deaf,  and  dumb,  and  blind. 
With  words  or  pence  was  neither  free — 
For  he  was  Scotch,  and  so  was  she. 

I  would  not  have  you  think  this  pair 
Went  on  in  weather  always  fair. 
For  well  you  know  in  married  life 
Will  come,  sometimes,  the  jar  and  strife; 
They  couldn't  always  just  agree — 
For  he  was  Scotch,  and  so  was  she. 

But  near  of  heart  they  ever  kept, 
Until  at  close  of  life  they   slept; 
Just  this  to  say  when  all  was  past, 
They  loved  each  other  to  the  last. 
They're  loving  yet,  in  heaven,  maybe — 
For  he  was  Scotch,  and  so  was  she. 

The  Passage 

OSOUL  on  God's  high  seas !  the  way  is  strange  and  long, 
Yet   fling  your   pennons  out,   and   spread   your   canvas 
strong ; 
For  though  to  mortal  eyes  so  small  a  craft  you  seem, 
The  highest  star  in  heaven  doth  lend  you  guiding  gleam. 

O  soul  on  God's  high  seas !  look  to  your  course  with  care. 
Fear  most  when  winds  are  kind  and  skies  are  blue  and  fair. 
Your  helm  must  sway  at  touch  of  no  hand  save  your  own — 
The  soul  that  sails  on  God's  high  seas  must  sail  alone. 

O  soul  on  God's  high  seas!  sail  on  with  steady  aim, 
Unmoved  by  wind  of  praise,  untouched  by  seas  of  blame. 
Beyond  the  lonely  ways,  beyond  the  guiding  star, 
There  stretches  out  the  strand  and  golden  harbour  bar. 
11 


194  Jean  Blewett 


Quebec 

QUEBEC,  the  gray  old  city  on  the  hill, 
Lies  with  a  golden  glory  on  her  head, 
Dreaming  throughout  this  hour  so  fair,  so  still, 
Of  other  days  and  her  beloved  dead. 
The  doves  are  nesting  in  the  cannons  grim, 
The  flowers  bloom  where  once  did  run  a  tide 
Of  crimson  when  the  moon  rose  pale  and  dim 
Above  a  field  of  battle  stretching  wide. 

Methinks  within  her  wakes  a  mighty  glow 

Of  pride  in  ancient  times,  her  stirring  past, 

The  strife,  the  valour  of  the  long  ago 

Feels  at  her  heart-strings.     Strong  and  tall,  and  vast 

She  lies,  touched  with  the  sunset's  golden  grace, 

A  wondrous  softness  on  her  gray  old  face. 

What  Time  the  Morning  Stars  Arise 

[Lieutenant  Reginald  Warneford,  while  patrolling  the  skies  over 
Belgium  in  his  aeroplane  at  3  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  June  7th, 
1915,  destroyed  a  German  armed  Zeppelin,  containing  twenty-eight 
men.  The  young  aviator  won  instant  fame  by  his  heroic  act.  He 
received  the  Victoria  Cross  from  King  George  and  the  Legion  of 
Honour  from  France.] 

ABOVE  him  spreads  the  purple  sky, 
Beneath  him  spreads  the  ether  sea, 
And  everywhere  about  him  lie 
Dim  ports  of  space,  and  mystery. 

Ho,  lonely  Admiral  of  the  Fleet! 

What  of  the  night?    What  of  the  night? 
'Methinks  I  hear,'  he  says,  'the  beat 

Of  great  wings  rising  for  the  flight.' 

Ho,  Admiral  neighbouring  with  the  stars 
Above  the  old  world's  stress  and  din ! 

With  Jupiter  and  lordly  Mars — 
'Ah,  yonder  sweeps  a  Zeppelin ! 

'A  bird  with  menace  in  its  breath, 
A  thing  of  peril,  spoil  and  strife, 


Jean  Blewett  19; 


'I'he  little  children  done  to  death, 
The  helpless  old  bereft  of  life. 

'The  moan  of  stricken  motherhood, 
The  cowardice  beyond  our  ken, 

The  cruelty  that  fires  the  blood, 
And  shocks  the  souls  of  honest  men. 

'These  call  for  vengeance — mine  the  chase.' 
He  guides  his  craft — elate  and  strong. 

Up,  up,  through  purple  seas  of  space, 
While  in  his  heart  there  grows  a  song. 

'Ho,  little  ship  of  mine  that  soars 
Twixt  earth  and  sky,  be  ours  to-day 

To  free  our  harassed  seas  and  shores 
Of  yonder  evil  bird  of  prey !' 

The  gallant  venture  is  his  own. 
No  friend  to  caution,  pray,  or  aid. 

But  strong  is  he  who  fights  alone. 
Of  loss  and  failure  unafraid. 

He  rises  higher,  higher  still. 
Till  poised  above  the  startled  foe — 
It  is  a  fight  to  stir  and  thrill 
And  set  the  dullest  breast  aglow. 

Old  Britain  hath  her  battles  won 
On  fields  that  are  a  nation's  pride, 

And  oh  the  deeds  of  daring  done 
Upon  her  waters  deep  and  wide! 

But  warfare   waged  on  solid  land. 
Or  on  the  sea,  can  scarce  compare 

With  this  engagement,  fierce,  yet  grand, 
This  duel  to  the  death  in  air. 

He  wins !  he  wins  in  sea  of  space ! 

Why  prate  we  now  of  other  wars 
Since  he  has  won  his  name  and  place 

By  deathless  valour  'mong  the  stars? 

No  more  that  Zeppelin  will  mock, 
No  more  will  sound  her  song  of  hate ; 


196  Jean  Blewett 


With  bursting  bomb,  and  fire,  and  shock, 
She  hurtles  downward  to  her  fate. 

A  touch  of  rose  in  eastern  skies, 

A  little  breeze  that  calls  and  sings, 
Look  yonder  where  our  hero  flies. 

Like  homing  bird  on  eager  wings. 

He  sees  the  white  mists  softly  curl, 
He  sees  the  moon  drift  pale  and  wan. 

Sees  Venus  climb  the  stairs  of  pearl 
To  hold  her  court  of  Love  at  dawn. 

The  Usurer 

FATE  says,  and  flaunts  her  stores  of  gold, 
Til  loan  you  happiness  untold. 
What  is  it  you  desire  of  me?' 
A  perfect  hour  in  which  to  be 
In  love  with  life,  and  glad,  and  good, 
The  bliss  of  being  understood. 
Amid  life's  cares  a  little  space 
To  feast  your  eyes  upon  a  face. 
The  whispered  word,  the  love-filled  tone. 
The  warmth  of  lips  that  meet  your  own. 
To-day  of  Fate  you  borrow; 

In  hunger  of  the  heart,  and  pain, 
In  loneliness,  and  longing  vain. 
You  pay  the  debt  to-morrow! 

Prince,  let  grim  Fate  take  what  she  will 
Of  treasures  rare,  of  joys  that  thrill, 
Enact  the  cruel  usurer's  part. 
Leave  empty  arms  and  hungry  heart, 
Take  what  she  can  of  love  and  trust. 
Take  all  life's  gladness,  if  she  must. 
Take  meeting  smile  and  parting  kiss — 
The  benediction  and  the  bliss. 

What  then?    The  fairest  thing  of  all 
Is  ours,  O  Prince,  beyond  recall — 
Not  even  Fate  would  dare  to  seize 
Our  store  of  golden  memories. 


Arthur  Wentworth  Hamilton  Eaton 

These  -rerses  are  direct,  unstrained,  natural,  and  alicays 
simple  in  form  and  motive.  There  is  much  easy  melody, 
much  tenderness  of  mood,  much  faithful  and  effective  des- 
cription. In  the  'Acadian  Letj^ends'  Mr.  Eaton  may  be  said 
to  reviir  that  pleasant  art  that  has  long^  been  in  disuse,  the 
art  of  telling  a  not  very  striking  story  in  verse,  and  adding 
an  ez'asive  grace  which  persuades  one  that  the  tale  zvas  worth 
telling.  The  'Lyrics'  arc  human  and  zcholcsome,  almost  with- 
out exception,  and  improve  on  close  acquaintance. — Charles 
G.  D.  Roberts,  in  'St.  John  Progress." 

Mr.  Eaton's  'Acadian  Legends'  are  characterized  by  melo- 
dy, patJios,  a  strong  feeling  for  nature,  and  refined  taste. 
The  spirit  of  Evangeline's  country  has  been  absorbed  by  the 
poet.  zAio  celebrates  the  Gaspereau  a)id  all  the  region  round 
about  zvith  a  tender  melancholy  fitted  to  the  scene  and  its 
associations,  lie  has  caught  the  old  world  atniosphere  zcliich 
surrounds  and  )nellows  that  beautiful  land,  and  has  given  to 
his  'rerse  a  softness  and  repihU'  z^'hich  are  in  perfect  keeping 
with  the  subject. — 'New  ^'(1^k  'rrihuiie.' 

11971 


198        Arthur  WcMitworth  Hamilton  Eaton 


ARTHL'R  \\EXT\V(  )RT1 1  1 1 AMILTOX  EAT(  )N,  M.A., 
D.C.L..  poet,  priest,  educator  and  historian,  was  born 
at  Kentville.  Nova  Scotia,  the  eldest  son  of  W'ilHam  Eaton, 
a  descendant  of  a  Puritan  family  and  at  one  time  Inspector 
of  Schools  for  his  county,  and  Anna  Augusta  Willoughby 
llamilton,  of  New  England  I'uritan  stock. 

His  higher  education  was  received  at  Dalhousie  College, 
Halifax,  and  at  Harvard  University  where  he  graduated  in 
arts  with  the  class  of  1880.  [Oi  this  class,  Theodore  Roose- 
velt was  a  member.]  The  honorary  degree,  D.C.L.,  was 
conferred  on  him  in  1905,  by  King's  College  University,  in 
recognition  of  his  literary  achievements  and  hig'h  scholastic 
attainments. 

Ordained  deacon  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church,  in 
1884.  and  priest  the  next  year,  he  was.  for  a  time,  incumljent 
of  the  parish   of  Chestnut   Hill,    Boston. 

In  1888.  Dr.  Eaton's  first  notable  work.  The  Heart  of  the 
Creeds:  Historical  Reli^^ion  in  the  IJs^ht  of  Modern  Thoui^ht, 
was  published.  Idiis  was  followed,  in  1889.  by  his  first  book 
of  verse.  Aeadian  Lei::ends  and  Lyrics,  so  favourably  review- 
ed by  the  critics.  His  third  i)ul)lication.  The  Church  of  Eui!;- 
land  in  Xo7V  Scotia,  and  the  Tory  Clcr^^y  of  the  Revolntion, 
a  ])ermanently  vahial)le  historical  work,  was  issued  in  1891. 
His  historical  researches  have  resulted  also  in  a  number  of 
authoritative  genealogical  and  family  monographs,  in  the  His- 
tory of  King's  County,  N.S.:  Heart  of  the  Acadian  Land,  and 
in  an  important  History  of  Halifax,  Nova  Scotia,  now  being 
])ul)lished  in  instalments,  in  'Americana.'  Two  other  volumes 
of  verse  appeared  in  190S.— Acadian  Ballads,  and  De  Soto's 
Last  Dream,  and  Poems  of  the  Christian  Year— and.  in  1907, 
wa^  ])ublished   The  Lotus  of  the  Xile  and  Other  Poems. 

As  Professor  of  English  Literature,  for  years,  in  a  Xew 
York  college,  Dr.  Eaton  gained  a  wide  reputation  as  an 
educator. 

Dr.  Eaton  has  made  an  enviable  record  as  a  Canadian 
litterateur.  His  Legends  and  T.allads  must  continue  to  hold 
their  distinctive  place  in  Canadian  verse,  whilst  his  historical 
writings  must  ever  increase  in  value  and  imi)ortance. 


Arthur  Wentworth  Hamilton  Eaton        199 
The  Phantom  Light  of  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs 

*'  I  ^  IS  the  laughter  of  pines  tliat  swing  and  sway 

A    Where  the  breeze  from  the  land  meets  the  breeze  from 
the  bay ; 
'Tis  the  silvery   foam  of  the  silver  tide 
In   ripples  that  reach  to  the   forest  side ; 
'Tis  the  fisherman's  boat,  in  a  track  of  sheen 
Plying  through  tangled  seaweed  green, 
O'er  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  phantom  light 
That  over  the  moaning  waves,  at  night, 
Dances  and  drifts  in  endless  play, 
Close  to  the  shore,  then  far  away, 
Fierce  as  the  flame  in  sunset  skies, 
Cold  as  the  winter  light  that  lies 
On  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 

They  tell  us  that  many  a  year  ago. 
From  lands  where  the  palm  and  the  olive  grow, 
Where  vines  with  their  purple  clusters  creep 
Over  the  hillsides  gray  and  steep, 
A  knight  in  his  doublet,  slashed  with  gold, 
Famed,  in  that  chivalrous  time  of  old. 
For  valorous  deeds  and  courage  rare, 
Sailed  with  a  princess  wondrous   fair 
To  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 

That  a  pirate  crew  from  some  isle  of  the  sea, 
A  murderous  band  as  e'er  could  be. 
With  a  shadowy  sail,  and  a  flag  of  night, 
That  flaunted  and  flew  in  heaven's  sight, 
Swept  in  the  wake  of  the  lovers  there. 
And  sank  the  ship  and  its  freight  so  fair 
In  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 

Strange  is  the  tale  that  the  fishermen  tell, — 
They  say  that  a  ball  of  fire  fell 
Straight  from  the  sky,  with  crash  and  roar, 
Lighting  the  bay  from  shore  to  shore ; 
That  the  ship,  with  a  shudder  and  a  groan, 
Sank  through  the  waves  to  the  caverns  lone 
Of  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 


200        Arthur  Wentwortli  Hamilton  Eaton 

That  was  the  last  of  the  pirate  crew ; 
But  many  a  night  a  black  flag  flew 
From  the  mast  of  a  spectre  vessel,  sailed 
By  a  spectre  band  that  wept  and  wailed 

For  the  wreck  they  had  wrought  on  the   sea,  on  the  land, 
For  the  innocent  blood  they  had  spilt  on  the  sand 
Of  the  Bale  des  Chaleurs, 

This  is  the  tale  of  the  phantom  light 
That  fills  the  mariner's  heart,  at  night. 
With  dread  as  it  gleams  o'er  his  path  on  the  bay, 
Now  by  the  shore,  then  far  away. 
Fierce  as  the  flame  in  sunset  skies, 
Cold  as  the  winter  moon  that  lies 
On  the  Baie  des  Chaleurs. 

The  Lotus  of  the  Nile 

PROUD,  languid  lily  of  the  sacred  Nile, 
'Tis  strange  to  see  thee  on  our  western  wave, 
Far  from  those  sandy  shores  that  mile  on  mile, 

Papyrus-plumed,  stretch  silent  as  the  grave. 
O'er  limpid  pool,  and  wide,  palm-sheltered  bay. 

And  round  deep-dreaming  isles,  thy  leaves  expand, 
Where  Alexandrian  barges  plough  their  way, 

Full-freighted,  to  the  ancient  Theban  land. 
On  Karnak's  lofty  columns  thou  wert  seen, 

And  spacious  Luxor's  temple-palace  walls. 
Each  royal  Pharaoh's  emeralded  queen 

Chose  thee  to  deck  her  glittering  banquet  halls  ; 
Yet  thou  art  blossoming  on  this  fairy  lake 

As  regally,  amidst  these  common  things, 
As  on  the  shores  where  Nile's  brown  ripples  break, 

As  in  the  ivory  halls  of  Egypt's  kings. 
Thy  grace  meets  every  passer's  curious  eyes. 

But  he  whose  thought  has  ranged  through  faiths  of  old 
Gazing  at  thee  feels  lofty  temples  rise 

About  him,  sees  long  lines  of  priests,  white-stoled. 
That  chant  strange  music  as  they  slowly  pace 

Dim-columned  aisles ;  hears   trembling  overhead 
Echoes  that  lose  themselves  in  that  vast  space. 

Of  Egypt's  solemn  ritual  for  the  dead. 


Arthur  Wentwortli  Hamilton  Eatou        201 


1 


Ay,  deeper  thoughts  than  these,  though  undefined, 

Start  in  the  reflective  soul  at  sight  of  thee. 
For  this  majestic  orient   faith  enshrined 

Man's  yearning  hope  of  immortality. 
And  thou  didst  symboHze  the  deathless  power 

That  under  all  decaying  forms  lies  hid, 
The  old  world  worshipped  thee,  O  Lotus  flower. 

Then  carved  its  sphinx  and  reared  its  pyramid ! 

1  Watch  the  Ships 

WATCH  the  ships  by  town  and  lea 
With  sails  full  set  glide  out  to  sea, 
Till  by  the  distant  lighthouse  rock 
The  breakers  beat  with  roar  and  shock, 
And  crisp  foam  whitening  all  the  decks; 
While  deep  below  lie  ocean's  wrecks. 

What  careth   she! 
I  stand  beside  the  beaten  quay 
And  look  while  laden  ships  from  sea 
Come  proudly  home  upon  the  tide 
Like  conquering  kings,  at  eventide: 
Or  from  fierce  fights  with  wintry  gales 
Steal  harbourward  with  tattered  sails, 

O  cruel  sea! 
I  pass  the  ancient  moss-grown  pier 
Where  men  have  waited  year  by  year 
For  ships  that  ne'er  again  shall  glide 
By  town  and  lea  on  favouring  tide. 
Strong  ships  that  struggled  till  the  gales 
Of  winter  hid  their  shrouds  and  sails 

In  ocean  drear. 
With  sails  full  set  young  spirits  glide 
From  harbour,  on  a  sea  untried, 
To  breast  the  waves  and  bear  the  shocks 
Beyond  the  guarded  lighthouse  rocks, 
To  strive  with  tempests  many  a  year; 
Strong  souls,  indeed,  if  they  can  bear 

Life's  wind  and  tide ! 
I  watch  beside  the  beaten  quay 
The  surf  bring  back  all  joyously 


202        Artliiu'  Weutwortli  Hamiltou  Eatou 


W 


To  anchor  by  the  sheltered  shore 
Some  laden  deep   with  precious  ore, 
Or  spices  won  from  perfumed  sands 
Of  rich,  luxuriant  tropic  lands, — 

O   kindly   sea ! 
But  some  come  back  on  wintry  gales 
With  broken  spars  and  shattered  sails 
And  fling  to  shore  a  feeble  rope; 
While  many  a  loving  heart  in  hope 
Waits  on  for  ships  that  nevermore 
Shall  anchor  by  a  friendly  shore, 

O  sad,  sad  sea ! 

L*ile  Sainte  Croix 

The  first  French  Settlement  in  America  was  made  here  in  1604. 
'ITH   tangled  brushwood  overgrown, 
And  here  and  there  a  lofty  pine, 
Around  whose  form  strange  creepers  twine, 
And  crags  that  mock  the  wild  sea's  moan, 
And  little  bays  where  no  ships  come, 
Though  many  a  white  sail  passes  by, 
And  many  a  drifting  cloud  on  high 
Looks  down  and  shames  the  sleeping  foam, 
Unconscious  on  the  waves  it  lies, 

While  midst  the  golden  reeds  and  sedge 
That,  southward,  line  the  water's  edge, 
The  thrush  sings  her  shrill  melodies. 
No  human  dwelling  now  is  seen 
Upon  its  rude,  unfertile  slopes. 
Though  many  a  summer  traveller  gropes 
For  ruins  midst  the  tangled  green. 
And  seeks  upon  the  northern  shore 
The  graves  of  that  adventurous  band 
That  followed  to  the  Acadian  land 
Champlain,  De  Monts,  and  Poutrincourt. 
There  stood  the  ancient  fort  that  sent 
Fierce  cannon  echoes  through  the  wold, 
There  waved  the  Bourbon  flag  that  told 
The  mastery  of  a  continent; 


Arthur  Weiitwortli  Hamilton  Eaton         203 

There  through  the  pines  the  echoing  wail 

Of  ghostly  winds  was  heard  at  eve, 

And  hoarse,  deep  sounds  like  those  that  heave 
The  breasts  of  stricken  warriors  pale. 
There  Huguenots  and  cassocked  priests, 

And  noble-born  and  sons  of  toil, 

Together  worked  the  barren  soil, 
And  shared  each  other's  frugal  feasts, 
And  dreamed  beneath  the  yellow  moon 

Of  golden  reapings  that  should  be. 

Conjuring  from  the  sailless  sea 
A  glad,  prophetic  harvest-tune. 
Till  stealthy  winter  through  the  reeds 

Crept,  crystal-footed,  to  the  shore. 

And  to  the  little  hamlet  bore 
His  hidden  freight  of  deathly  seeds. 
Spring  came  at  last,  and  o'er  the  waves 

The   welcome   sail   of   Pontgrave, 

But   half  the   number   silent   lay, 
Death's  pale  first-fruits,  in  western  graves. 
Sing  on,  wild  sea,  your  sad  refrain 

For  all  the  gallant  sons  of  France, 

Whose  songs  and  sufferings  enhance 
The  witchery  of  the  western  main. 
Keep  kindly  watch  before  the  strand 

Where  lie  in  hidden  mounds,  secure. 

The  men  De  Monts  and  Poutrincourt 
First  led  to  the  Acadian  land. 

By  the  Bridge 

WITH  subtlest  mimicry  of  wave  and  tide, 
Of  ocean  storm,  and  current  setting  free, 
Here  by  the  bridge  the  river  deep  and  wide, 
Swaying  the  reeds  along  its  muddy  marge, 
Speeds  to  the  wliarf  the  dusky  coaling-barge 
And  dreams  itself  a  commerce-quickening  sea. 
Wide  sedge-rimmed  meadows  westward  meet  the  eye, 
Brown,  silty,  sere,  where  driftwood  from  the  mills 
Is  thrown,  as  Spring's  full  flood  sweeps  by, 


204        Arthur  Wentworth  Hamilton  Eaton 

And  weeds  grow  rank  as  on  the  wild  salt-marsh, 
And  lonely  cries  of  sea-gulls,  loud  and  harsh, 
Pierce  evening's  silence  to  the  echoing  hills. 
The  scene,  with  all  its  varied,  voiceless  moods, 
My  eyes  have  looked  upon  so  many  years 
That  like  my  mother's  songs,  or  the  deep  woods 
In  whose  mysterious  shade  I  used  to  play. 
Weaving  sweet  fancies  all  the  summer  day, 
It  has  strange  power  to  waken  joy  or  tears. 
I  love  the  lig'hts  that  fringe  the  farther  shore, 
Great  golden  fireflies  by  a  silver  mere ; 
Mysterious  torches  they,  that  o'er  and  o'er 
Recall  to  mind  the  dear  souls  gone,  not  set 
Cold-gleaming  crystals  in   God's   coronet, 
But  gems  that  light  our  way  with  ruddy  cheer. 
Sometimes  inverted  in  the  wave  they  seem 
Like  orient  palace-roofs  and  towers  aflame 
With  rubies,  or  those  sapphire  walls  that  gleam 
Amidst  the  visions  of  the  holy  Seer, 
Who  by  the  blue  TEgean,  with  vision  clear, 
Saw  splendours  in  the  heavens  he  might  not  name. 
When  all  the  river  lies  encloaked  in  mist 
So  far  away  those  trembling  orbs  of  light 
They  symbol  memories  fair  that  still  persist, 
With  glow  or  glimmer,  of  the  shrouded  years 
Before  we  left,  for  laughter,  cries  and  tears, 
That  world  serene  where  souls  are  born  in  light. 
I  cannot  watch  unmoved  the  sunset  here, 
When  swift  volcanic  fires  of  liquid  gold 
Alight  on  hills  of  purple  haze  appear, 
And  clouds,  deep-crimsoned  in  the  day's  decline, 
Like  snowy  festal-garments  splashed  with  wine, 
Lie  careless,  resting  fleecy  fold  on  fold. 
So  deep  the  meanings  in  these  changing  moods 
Of  earth  and  heaven,  that  I  who  reverent  stand 
Before  a  flower,  and  in  the  sombre  woods 
Hear  speech  that  silences  the  common  creeds, 
Stand  lost  in  wonder,  like  a  man  who  reads 
Immortal  prophecies  none  can  understand. 


H 


elena 


Col 


eman 


The  poet's  claim  to  fame  depends  -rcry  largely  on  his  or  her 
mastery  of  outzvard  form  or  technique,  on  skill  in  phrasing,  in 
emphasis  and  in  sonority  of  verse.  Measured  by  such  canons 
of  taste,  we  Jiare  no  Jiesitation  in  saying  that  Miss  Coleman's 
style  singles  her  out  at  once  from  the  latter-day  lamp-poetry 
maga:::ine  irrsifiers.  Her  command  of  rhythm  is  very  pleasing. 
a)td  hccausc  of  her  love  of  Latitiized  English,  reaches  a  certain 
degree  of  opulence  which  cannot  fail  to  give  any  lover  of  cad- 
ence great  delight.      Vet  in  spite  of  her  love  for  colour  and 

sonority  our  nezc  poet  is  at  all  times  eminently  clear 

Miss  Coleman  has  much  in  common  with  Mathew  Arnold. 
Just  as  he  did,  she  knows  how  to  combine  concretencss  of 
colour,  with  a  certain  noble  simplicity  a}id  restraint  of  style, 
and  like  .Irnold.  she  likes  best  of  all  to  devote  her  thought  to 

the  deep  things  of  the  soul She  k)wws  life  in  its 

sad>iess.  gladness  and  beauty,  and  sings  of  it  in  relation  to 
Nature  and  to  God.—Fmn-.  W.  T.  Ai.i.ismx.  >r.A..  Ph.D..  in 
the  "Canadiati   ^fa^"azine.' 

[2051 


206  Helena  (\)lemaii 

AS  Miss  Coleman's  poems  appeared  for  years  in  tlie  .Itlaii- 
tic  Monihlx  and  other  jieriodicals,  under  a  nom  de 
]dume.  a  few  intimate  friends  only  knew  the  real  name 
and  ])ersnnalit\-  of  the  author.  ])ri<jr  to  1906.  In  that  year 
appeared  her  Songs  and  Sonnets,  puhlished  under  the  aus]jices 
of  the   Tennyson   Club.   Toronto. 

It  was  recognized  at  once  that  Canada  had  a  new  poet  of 
distinctive  merit :  and  the  first  edition  was  soon  followed  by 
a  second.  The  critics  invariably  ranked  the  forty-four  sonnets 
in  the  book  as  work  of  hi.i;h  quality. — spontaneous,  rhythmic, 
noble  :  and  indeed  this  form  of  verse  seems  to  suit  most  ade- 
quatelv  the  finer  instincts  of  her  g'enius.  The  lyrics  quoted 
are  al-o  Ijeautiful. 

A  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Francis  Coleman,  a  .Methodist 
clergyman,  and  his  wife,  Emmeline  Maria  Adams,  she  is 
a  descendant  through  her  uKJther  of  John  ( juincy  Adams,  sixth 
President  of  the  United  States,  and  the  re])uted  author  of  the 
"Monroe  Doctrine."  She  is  the  only  sister  of  the  well-known 
g-eologist.  I'rof.  A.  P.  Coleman,  Ph.D.,  F.R.S. 

Miss  Coleman  is  a  Canadian  Ijy  birth  and  education  and  a 
resident  of  Toronto.  She  travels  (juite  extensively — was  in 
Germany  when  the  (Jreat  War  began — but  in  the  summer 
months  is  found  most  frequently  at  Pinehurst,  her  lovely  island 
and  cottage  in  the  Thousand  Islands,  where  the  fresh  air  and 
the  beauty  of  nature  renew  her  health  and  inspiration  :  and 
where,  as  a  gracious  hostess,  she  entertain-  cnngenial  friends. 

More  Lovely  Grows  the  Earth 

MORE  lovely  grows  the  earth  as  we  grow  old, 
1^1  ore  tenderness  is   in  the  dawning  spring. 
More  bronze  u])on  the  blackljird's  burnished  wing; 
And   richer  is  the  autumn   cloth-of-gold  ; 
A  deeper  meaning,  to<j,  the  years  unfold, 
Until  to  waiting  hearts  each  living  thing 
For  very  love  its  bomity  seems  to  bring, 
Intreating   u--    with   beauty   to   behold. 

r)r  is  it  that   with   years  we  grow  more   wise 
And  reverent  to  the  mystery  ])ro found — 


Helena  Coleman  '^^'^ 

Withheld  from  careless  or  indifferent  eyes — 
That  broods  in  simple  things  the  world  around, 
More  conscious  of  the  Love  that  glorifies 
The  common  ways  and  makes  theni  holy  ground  ? 

To  a  Bluebell 

I    WATCH  thy  little  bells  of  blue, 
So   delicate   of    form    and    hue, 
And  when  I  see  them  swing  and  sway 
I  listen   for  the  chimes  to  play ; 
But  dull  has  grown  the  mortal  ear, 
And  I  can  never,  never  hear 
The  dainty  tunes,  but  only  guess 
Their  music  from  thy  loveliness. 

Dost  thou  announce  the  day  new-born, 
And  ring  the  changes  of  the  morn. 
And  summon  for  an  early  mass 
The  little  peoples  of  the  grass, 
That  they  may  give  fresh  meed  of  praise 
For  sun  and  rain  and  summer  days? 
Dost  thou  the  moon's  late  rising  tell. 
And  sound  at  eve  a  curfew  bell? 
When  drowsy  bees  go  loitering, 
And  butterflies  are  on  the  wing. 
Dost  beat  the  merry  music  out. 
And  swell  the  rhythm  of  the  rout? 
Dost  ever  some  faint  message  sound 
For  all  the  wee  folk  of  the  ground. 
Of  those  far  mysteries  that  lie 
Beyond  their  ken  in  earth  and  sky? 

Keep  thou  thy   silence,   fairy  bell. 
Thou  art  no  less  a  miracle ; 
No  less  a  rapture  thou  dost  bring 
Because  we  cannot  hear  thee  ring; 
For  they  who  give  attentive  ear 
Must  catch  thy  silvery  cadence  clear, 
And  know  a  joy  no  language  tells, 
When  in  the  heart  there  sings  and  swells 
The  music  of  thv  maanc  bells. 


208  Helena  Coleman 

Indian  Summer 

OF  all  Earth's  varied,  lovely  moods, 
The  loveliest  is  when  she  broods 
Among  her   dreaming  solitudes 

On  Indian  Summer  days; 
When  on  the  hill  the  aster  pales. 
And  Summer's  stress  of  passion  fails. 
And  Autumn  looks  through  misty  veils 
Along  her  leafy  ways. 

How  deep  the  tenderness  that  yearns 
Within  the  silent  wood  that  turns 
From  green  to  gold,  and  slowly  burns 

As  by  some  inward  fire ! 
How  dear  the  sense  that  all  things  wild 
Have  been  at  last  by  love  beguiled 
To  join  one  chorus,  reconciled 

In  satisfied  desire! 

The  changing  hillside,  wrapped  in  dreams 
With  softest  opalescent  gleams. 
Like  some  ethereal  vision  seems. 

Outlined  against  the  sky ; 
The  fields  that  gave  the  harvest  gold — 
Afar  before  our  eyes  unrolled 
In  purple  distance,  fold  on  fold — 

Lovely  and  tranquil  lie. 

We  linger  by  the  crimson  vine. 
Steeped  to  the  heart  with  fragrant  wine. 
And  where  the  rowan-berries  shine. 

And  gentians  lift  their  blue ; 
We  stay  to  hear  the  wind  that  grieves 
Among  the  oak's  crisp  russet  leaves, 
And  watch  the  moving  light,  that  weaves 

Quaint  patterns,  peering  through. 

The  fires  that  in  the  maples  glow, 
The  rapture  that  the  beeches  know, 
The  smoke-wraiths  drifting  to  and  fro, 
Each  season  more  endears ; 


Helena  Coleman  209 

Vagiie  long'ings  in  the  heart  arise. 
A  dimming  mist  comes  to  the  eyes 
That  is  not  sadness,  though  it  lies 
Close  to  the  place  of  tears. 

We  share  the  ecstasy  profound 
That  broods  in  everything  around, 
And  by  the  wilderness  are  crowned — 

Its  silent   worship  know. 
O  when  our  Indian  Summer  days 
Divide  the  parting  of  the  ways, 
May  we,  too,  linger  here  in  praise 

Awhile  before  we  go ! 

Prairie  Winds 

I   LOVE  all  things  that  God  has  made 
That  show  His  ordered  care  and  might, 
But  most,  I  think,  I  love  the  wind 
That  blows  at  night. 

It  holds  so  much  of  mystery. 

Like  that  in  mine  own  restless  heart — 
Brother  to  me  and  well-beloved, 

O  Wind,  thou  art! 

Across  these  unresisting  plains 

It  sweeps  at  times  with  force  sublime. 

And  always  like  the  wraith  it  seems 
Of  happier  clime. 

For  in  the  South  its  home  has  been, 
A  sun-kissed,  warm  and   fertile  land. 

Where  Nature  pours  her  treasure  from 
Unstinting  hand. 

Through  fields  of  rustling  corn  it  came 

And  acres  broad  of  bearded  wheat, 
Past  hillsides  clad  with  evergreen 

And  orchards  sweet. 

It  rifled  scent  from  clover  fields 

Where  harvesters  have  been  at  work, 


210  Helena  Colemau 

And   ruffled   little   running  brooks 
Where  mosses  lurk. 

It  bears  the  note  of  piping  frogs, 
The  stir  of  tender,  untried  wings — 

Of  lowing  kine,  and  homely  sounds 
Of  barnyard  things. 

O  barren  land!  what  dost  thou  dream 
Beneath  these  surging  winds  that  bear 

The  echoes  of  a  life  which  thou 
Canst  never  share? 

Dost  thou  not  long  to  break  thy  calm — 
To  know  that  living,  sweet  unrest? 

And  feel  the  tread  of  busy  feet 
Upon  thy  breast? 

To  hear  thy  children's  laughter  voiced 
In  myriad  tongues,  and  know  that  when 

Their  day  is  done  within  thy  breast 
They'll  sleep  again? 

0  silent  land  !  the  winds  that  blow 
Within  men's  hearts  and  fan  the  fire 

Of  hidden  hopes  and  show  the  soul 
Its  own  desire. 

Have  come  to  me  from  distant  shores 
And  borne  in  broken  whisperings 

A  tale  that  thrilled  me  like  a  tide 
From  rising  springs. 

The  full-pressed  wine  of  life  my  lips 
Have  never  tasted,  yet  is  known, 

My  heart,  though  held  in  bondage,  leaps 
To  claim  its  own. 

1  know  my  lawful  heritage. 
Although  I  stand  on  alien  ground; 

I  know  what  kingship  is,  although 
I  sfo  uncrowned. 


Helena  Coleman  ^11 


At  night  when  inner  lenipesls  blow, 
And  sleep  forsakes  my  weary  eye, 

I  love  to  hear  the  wind  without 
Go  storming  by. 

It  speaks  my  own  wild  native  tongue 
And  gives  me  courage  to  withstand, 

As  if  a  comrade  came  to  me 
And  took  my  hand. 

I  love  all  things  that  God  has  made 
In  earth  or  sea  or  heavens  bright. 

But  most  I  love  the  prairie  winds 
That  blow  at  night. 

Enlargement 

AROUND  us  unaware  the  solemn  night 
Mad  hung  its  shadowy  mantle,  while  we  sought 
To  find  each  other  by  the  roads  of  thought; 
I  felt  thy  orbit  nearing,  and  a  light 
Streamed  suddenly  across  my  inner  sight. 
Effulgent,  incommunicable,  fraught 
With  some  constraining  tenderness  that  caught 
My  quickened  spirit  lo  its  utmost  height. 

And  lo!  I  saw  as  with  the  eyes  of  two, 

In  that  swift  moment  when  thy  soul  touched  mine, 

The  walls  of  being  widened,  and  I  drew 

Near  to  the  portal  of  a  nameless  shrine, 

A  sudden  blinding  rapture  pierced  me  through, 

And  in  that  instant  earth  became  divine. 

Day  and  Night 

WHEN  in  the  atlluent  splendour  of  the  day, 
To  heaven's  cloudless  blue  I  lift  my  eyes, 
Thrilled  with  the  beauty  that  around  me  lies, 
My  heart  goes  up  on  wing^  of  ecstasy; 
But  when  Orion  and  the  Milky  Way 
Reveal  the  story  of  the  midnight  skies, 
And  all  the  starry  hosts  of  space  arise — 
Mutelv  I  bow  in  reverence  to  pray. 


212 Helena  Coleman 

And  so  with  life ;  the  daylig^ht  of  success 
Rounds  earth  and  pleasure  to  a  perfect  sphere, 
But  in  the  night  of  trial  and  distress 
The  quickened  soul  to  vaster  realms  draws  near, 
And  o'er  the  borders  of  our  consciousness 
Foretokens  of  the  Infinite  appear. 

Beyond  the  Violet  Rays 

BEYOND  the  violet  rays  we  do  not  know 
What  colours  lie,  what  fields  of  light  abound, 
Or  what  undreamed  effulgence  may  surround 
Our  dreaming  consciousness  above,  below ; 
Nor  is  it  far  that  finite  sense  can  go 
Along  the  subtle  passages  of  sound, 
The  finer  tonal  waves  are  too  profound 
For  mortal  ears  to  catch  their  ebb  and  flow. 

But  there  are  moments  when  upon  us  steal 
Monitions  of  far  wider  realms  that  lie 
Beyond  our  spirit  borders,  and  we  feel 
That  fine,  ethereal  joys  we  cannot  name. 
In  some  vast  orbit  circling,  sweeping  by. 
Touch  us  in  passing'  as  with  wings  of  flame. 

As  Day  Begins  to  Wane 

ENCOMPASSED  by  a  thousand  nameless  fears, 
I  see  life's  little  day  begin  to  wane. 
And  hear  the  well-loved  voices  call  in  vain 
Across  the  narrowing  margin  of  my  years ; 
And  as  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  nears. 
Such  yearning  tides  of  tenderness  and  pain 
Sweep  over  me  that  I  can  scarce  restrain 
The  gathering  flood  of  ineffectual  tears. 

Yet  there  are  moments  when  the  shadows  bring 
No  sense  of  parting  or  approaching  night. 
But,  rather,  all  my  soul  seems  broadening 
Before  the  dawn  of  unimagined  light — 
As  if  within  the  heart  a  folded  wing 
Were  making  ready  for  a  wider  flight. 


Thomas  O'Hagan 

Of  the  merits  of  the  poems  it  is  only  necessary  to  say  that 
zi'hile  most  of  the  poetry  of  our  day  seems  to  have  buried 
itself  in  obscurity,  Mr.  O'Hagan's  poems  come  freely  from 
the  thought  and  imagination  ....  and  can  be  under- 
stood by  any  person  of  intelligoice,  who  is  fond  of  poetry  and 
believes  that  it  springs  from  the  heart  ....  and  the 
best  wishes  of  all  will  be  that  the  immortality  which  wc  all  so 
ardently  crave,  may  crown  his  efforts  to  endozc  mankind  with 
siveetest  and  purest  sentiments. — IIox.  Justice  Longley, 
D.C.L.,  LL.IX 

Tenderness,  piety,  frioidship,  filial  affection,  loi-e  tliat  con- 
quers death  and  lasts  beyotid  the  grave,  the  call  of  the  'Settle- 
moit,'  loyalty  to  the  college  that  has  been  the  poet's  Alma 
Mater:  all  these  tct  ha7'e  in  Dr.  O'Hagan's  volume.  'In  the 
Heart  of  the  Meadow,'  and  not  often  in  recent  years  have 
they  been  more  poetically  or  more  gracefully  phrased. — ^P.  J. 
Lennox,  Litt.D..  \\'ashin<rton.  D.C. 


[213] 


2ii  Thomas  O'Hagau 

THOMAS  O'llAGAN,  the  youngest  son  of  John  and  Briil- 
get  (O'Reilly)  O'Hagan,  natives  of  County  Kerry,  Ire- 
land, was  born  in  'the  Gore  of  Toronto;  on  the  6th  of 
March,  1855,  and  was  a  babe  in  arms,  when  his  parents,  three 
brothers,  a  sister  and  himself,  moved  into  the  wilderness  of  the 
county  of  Bruce.  Ontario.  They  located  in  the  township  of 
Elderslie,  three  miles  from  the  village  of  Paisley.  The  other 
>ettlers  were  mostly  Highland  Scotch,  and  Thomas  as  a  lad 
learned  to  speak  quite  fluently  not  only  the  Gaelic  tongue  of  his 
neighbours,  but  also  the  Keltic  Irish,  which  was  spoken  freely 
by  his  parents.  He  attended  the  public  school  of  the  settlement 
where  the  teachers  were  Scotch,  and  where  he  applied  himself 
with  such  diligence  and  ability  that  he  won  a  Second  Class 
Teacher's  Certificate  at  the  early  age  of  -ixteen. 

Few^  Canadians  have  devoted  so  much  time  to  academic 
study  as  Dr.  O'Hagan.  After  graduating  from  St.  ^Michael's 
College,  a  prize  winner  in  Latin  and  English,  he  entered  the 
Ottawa  University  and  graduated  B.A.,  in  1882,  w'ith  honours 
in  English,  Latin,  French  and  German.  Three  years  later  the 
same  L'niversity  conferred  on  him  the  degree  of  M.A. 
In  1889,  he  received  the  degree  of  Ph.D.  from  Syracuse  Uni- 
versity :  and  in  subsequent  years  took  postgraduate  work  at 
Cornell,  Columbia,  Chicago,  Lou  vain,  Grenoble  and  Fribourg 
Universities.  In  September,  1914,  Laval  University,  Montreal, 
conferred  on  him  the  honorary  degree  of  Litt.D. 

During  his  young  manhood  he  taught  for  some  years  in 
Separate  Schools  and  High  Schools  of  Ontario. 

Dr.  O'Hagan  is  widely  known  as  a  scholarly  and  popular 
lecturer  on  many  literary  themes. 

Recently  (1910-13),  he  was  Chief  Editor  and  Director  of 
the   Xeic   Jl'orld.   Chicago,   but   is   now   resident   in   Toronto. 

The  following  is  a  list  of  Dr.  C)'Hag'an's  books  of  verse: 
A  Gate  of  Flowers,  1887;  I)i  Dreamland  and  Other  Poems, 
1893:  Songs  of  the  Settlement,  1899:  //;  the  heart  of 
the  Meadow,  1914 :  and  Songs  of  Heroic  Days,  1916. 
He  has  also  published  several  volumes  of  interesting 
and  instructive  essays:  Studies  in  Poetry;  Canadian 
Essays;  Essays  Literary,  Critical  and  Historical;  Chats  by 
the  Fireside;  and,  in  1916,  Essays  of  Catholic  Life. 


Thomas  O'Hagan  215 

An  Idyl  of  the  Farm 

O    THERE'S  joy  in  every  sphere  of  life  from  cottage  unto 
throne, 
But  the  sweetest  smiles  of  nature  beam  upon  the  farm  alone ; 
And  in  memory  I  go  back  to  the  days  of  long  ago, 
When   the   teamster   shouted   'Haw,    Buck!'    'Gee!'   'G'lang!' 
and  'Whoa!' 

I  see  out  in  the  logging-field  the  heroes  of  our  land, 

Witli  their  strong  and  sturdy  faces,  each  with  handspike  in 

his  hand; 
With  shoulders  strong  as  Hercules,  they  feared  no  giant  foe, 
As  the  teamster  shouted  'Haw.  Buck!'  'Gee!'  'G'lang!'   and 

'Whoa !' 

The  logging-bees  are  over,  and  the  woodlands  all  are  cleared. 
The  face  that  then  was  young  and  fair  is  silvered  o'er  with 

beard ; 
The  handspike  now  holds  not  the  place  it  did  long  years  ago. 
When  the  teamster  shouted  'Haw,  Buck!'  'Gee!'  'G'lang!'  and 

'Whoa !' 

On  meadow  land  and  orchard  field  there  rests  a  glory  round, 
Sweet  as   the   memory  of   the   dead   that  haunts  some   holy 

ground ; 
And  yet  there's  wanting  to  my  heart  some  joy  of  long  ago. 
When   the   teamster   shouted   'Haw,    Buck!'    'Gee!'    'G'lang!' 

and  'Whoa  I' 

Demosthenes  had  silvery  tongue,  and  Cicero  knew  Greek, 
The  Gracchi  brothers  loved  old  Rome  and  always  helped  the 

weak ; 
But  there's  not  a  Grecian  hero,  nor  Roman  high  or  low. 
Whose  heart  spake  braver  patriot  words  than  'Gee!'  'G'lang!' 

and  'Whoa !' 

They  wore  no  coat  of  armour,  tiie  boys  in  twilight  days — 
They  sang  no  classic  music,  but  the  old  'Come  all  ye'  lays ; 
For  armed  with  axe  and  handspike,  each  giant  tree  their  foe, 
They  rallied  to  the  battle-cry  of  'Gee!'  'G'lang!'  and  'Whoa!' 
12 


216  Thomas  O'Haffan 


And  so  they  smote  the  forest  down,  and  rolled  the  logs  in 

heaps, 
And  brought  our  country  to  the  front  in  mighty  strides  and 

leaps ; 
And  left  upon  the  altar  of  each  home  wherein  you  go. 
Some    fragrance  of  the  flowers   that   bloom   through   'Gee!' 

'G'lang!'  and  'Whoa!' 

The  Old  Brindle  Cow 

OF  all  old  memories  that  cluster  round  my  heart, 
With  their  root  in  my  boyhood  days. 
The  quaintest  is  linked  to  the  old  brindle  cow 

With  sly  and  mysterious  ways. 
She'd  linger  round  the  lot  near  the  old  potato  patch, 

A  sentinel  by  night  and  by  day, 
Watching  for  the  hour  when  all  eyes  were  asleep, 
To  start  on  her  predatory  way. 

The  old  brush  fence  she  would  scorn  in  her  course, 

With  turnips  and  cabbage  just  beyond. 
And  corn  that  was  blooming  through  the  halo  of  the  night— 

What  a  banquet  so  choice  and  so  fond ! 
But  when  the  stars  of  morn  were  paling  in  the  sky 

The  old  brindle  cow  would  take  the  cue. 
And  dressing  up  her  line  she'd  retreat  beyond  the  fence. 

For  the  old  cow  knew  just  what  to  do. 

What  breed  did  you  say?     Why  the  very  best  blood 

That  could  flow  in  a  democratic  cow ; 
No  herd-book  could  tell  of  the  glory  in  her  horns 

Or  whence  came  her  pedigree  or  how: 
She  was  Jersey  in  her  milk  and  Durham  in  her  build. 

And  Ayrshire  when  she  happened  in  a  row, 
But  when  it  came  to  storming  the  old  'slash'  fence 

She  was  simply  the  old  brindle  cow. 

It  seems  but  a  day  since  I  drove  her  to  the  gate 

To  yield  up  her  rich  and  creamy  prize ; 
For  her  theft  at  midnight  hour  she  would  yield  a  double  dower, 

With  peace  of  conscience  lurking  in  her  eyes. 


Thomas  O'liagan  217 

But  she's  g-one — clisapi)cared  with  the  ripened  years  of  time, 
Whose  memories  my  heart  enthrall  e'en  now ; 

And  I  never  hear  a  bell  tinkling  through  the  forest  dell 
But  I  think  of  that  old  brindle  cow. 

The  Dance  at  McDougall's 

IN  a  little  log  house  near  the  rim  of  the  forest 
With  its  windows  of  sunlight,  its  threshold  of  stone, 
Lived  Donald  iMcDoug'all,  the  quaintest  of  Scotchmen, 

And  Janet  his  wife,  in  their  shanty,  alone : 
By  day  the  birds  sang"  them  a  chorus  of  welcome. 

At  night  they  saw  Scotland  again  in  their  dreams ; 
They  toiled  full  of  hope  'mid  the  sunshine  of  friendship. 
Their  hearts  leaping  onward  like  troutlets  in  streams. 
In  the  little  log  home  of  McDougall's. 

At  evening  the  boys  and  the  girls  would  all  gather 

To  dance  and  to  court  'neath  McDougall's  rooftree ; 
They  were  wild  as  the  tide  that  rushes  up  Solway 

When  lashed  by  the  tempests  that  sweep  the  dark  sea : 
There  Malcolm  and  Flora  and  Angus  and  Katie 

With  laughter-timed  paces  came  tripping  along. 
And  Pat,  whose  gay  heart  had  been  nursed  in  Old  Erin, 

Would  link  each  Scotch  reel  with  a  good  Irish  song, 
Down  at  the  dance  at  McDougall's. 

For  the  night  was  as  day  at  McDougall's  log  shanty, 

The  blaze  on  the  hearth  shed  its  halo  around. 
While  the  feet  that  tripped  lightly  the  reel  'Tullagoruni,' 

Pattered  each  measure  with  *ooch !'  and  with  bound ; 
No  'Lancers'  nor  'Jerseys'  were  danced  at  McDougall's, 

Nor  the  latest  waltz-step  found  a  place  on  the  floor. 
But  reels  and  strathspeys  and  the  liveliest  hornpipes 

Shook  the  room  to  its  centre  from  fireplace  to  door, 
In  the  little  log  house  at  McDougall's. 

Gone  now  is  the  light  in  McDougall's  log  shanty, 
The  blaze  on  the  hearth  long  has  sunk  into  gloom. 

And  Donald  and  Janet  who  dreamed  of  'Auld  Scotia' 
Are  dreaming  of  Heaven  in  the  dust  of  the  tomb. 


218  Thomas  O'Hagan 

While  the  boys  and  the  girls — the  'balachs'  and  'calahs' — 
Who  toiled  during  day  and  danced  through  the  night, 

Live  again  in  bright  dreams  of  Memory's  morning 
When  their  hearts  beat  to  music  of  life,  love  and  light, 
Down   at  the   dance   at   McDougall's. 

The  Song  My  Mother  Sings 

O    SWEET  unto  my  heart  is  the  song  my  mother  sings 
As  eventide  is  brooding  on  its  dark  and  noiseless  wings ; 
Every  note  is  charged  with  memory — every  memory  bright 

with  rays 
Of  the  golden  hours  of  promise  in  the  lap  of  chidhood's  days ; 
The  orchard  blooms  anew  and  each  blossom  scents  the  way, 
And  I  feel  again  the  breath  of  eve  among  the  new-mown  hay ; 
W^hile  through  the  halls  of  memory  in  happy  notes  there  rings 
All  the  life-joy  of  the  past  in  the  song  my  mother  sings. 

I  have  Ustened  to  the  dreamy  notes  of  Chopin  and  of  Liszt, 
As  they  dripped  and  drooped  about  my  heart  and  filled  my 

eyes  with  mist; 
I  have  wept  strong  tears  of  pathos  'neath  the  spell  of  Verdi's 

power, 
As  I  heard  the  tenor  voice  of  grief  from  out  the  donjon  tower; 
And  Gounod's  oratorios  are  full  of  notes  sublime 
That  stir  the  heart  with  rapture  through  the  sacred  pulse  of 

time; 
But  all  the  music  of  the  past  and  the  wealth  that  memory  brings 
Seem  as  nothing  when  I  listen  to  the  song  my  mother  sing's. 

It's  a  song  of  love  and  triumph,  it's  a  song  of  toil  and  care; 
It  is  filled  with  chords  of  pathos  and  it's  set  in  notes  of  prayer ; 
It  is  bright  with  dreams  and  visions  of  the  days  that  are  to  be, 
And  as  strong  in  faith's  devotion  as  the  heart-beat  of  the  sea ; 
It  is  linked  in  mystic  measure  to  sweet  voices  from  above. 
And  is  starred  with  ripest  blessing  through  a  mother's  sacred 

love; 
Oh,  sweet  and  strong  and  tender  are  the  memories  that  it 

brings, 
As  I  list  in  joy  and  rapture  to  the  song  my  mother  sings. 


Thomas  O'Hagan  219 

Ripened  Fruit 

I    KNOW  not   what  my  lieart   liath  lost; 
I  cannot  strike  the  chords  of  old ; 
The  breath  that  charmed  my  morning-  life 
Hath  chilled  each  leaf  within  the  wold. 
The  swallows  twitter  in  the  sky, 

But  bare  the  nest  within  the  eaves ; 
The  fledgling's  of  my  care  are  gone, 
And  left  me  but  the  rustling  leaves. 

And  yet,  I  know  my  life  hath  strength, 

And  firmer  hope  and  sweeter  prayer, 
For  leaves  that  murmur  on  the  ground 

Have  now  for  me  a  double  care. 
I  see  in  them  the  hope  of  spring, 

That  erst  did  plan  the  autumn  day; 
I  see  in  them  each  gift  of  man 

Grow  strong  in  years,  then  turn  to  clay. 
Not  all  is  lost — the  fruit  remains 

That  ripened  through  the  summer's  ray; 
The  nurslings  of  the  nest  are  gone, 

Yet  hear  we  still  their  warbling  lay. 

The  glory  of  the  summer  sky 

May  change  to  tints  of  autumn  hue ; 

But  faith  that  sheds  its  amber  light 
Will  lend  our  heaven  a  tender  blue. 

O  altar  of  eternal  youth ! 

O  faith  that  beckons  from  afar. 
Give  to  our  lives  a  blossomed  fruit — 

Give  to  our  morns  an  evening  star ! 

The  Bugle  Call 

DO  you  hear  the  call  of  our  Mother 
From  over  the  sea,  from  over  the  sea? 
The  call  to  her  children  in  every  land  ; 
To  her  sons  on  Afric's  far-stretched  veldt ; 
To  her  dark-skinned  children  on  India's  shore. 
Whose  souls  are  nourished  on  Aryan  lore ; 
To  her  sons  of  the  Northland  where  frosty  stars 


220  Thomas  O'Hagan 


Glitter  and  shine  like  a  helmet  of  Mars; 
Do  you  hear  the  call  of  our  Mother? 

Do  you  hear  the  call  of  our  Mother 

From  over  the  sea,  from  over  the  sea? 
The  call  to  Australia's  legions  strong, 
That  move  with  the  might  and  stealth  of  a  wave ; 
To  the  men  of  the  camp  and  men  of  the  field. 
Whose  courage  has  taught  them  never  to  yield; 
To  the  men  whose  counsel  has  saved  the  State 
And  thwarted  the  plans  of  impending  fate ; 

Do  you  hear  the  call  of  our  Mother? 
Do  you  hear  the  call  of  our  Mother 

From  over  the  sea,  from  over  the  sea? 
To  the  little  eot  on  the  wind-swept  hill ; 
To  the  lordly  hall  in  the  city  street; 
To  her  sons  who  toil  in  the  forest  deep 
Or  bind  the  sheaves  where  the  reapers  reap  ; 
To  her  children  scattered  far  East  and  West ; 
To  her  sons  who  joy  in  her  Freedom  Blest ; 

Do  you  hear  the  call  of  our  Mother? 

The  Chrism  of  Kings 

N  the  morn  of  the  world,  at  the  day  break  of  time, 
When  kingdoms  were  few  and  empires  unknown, 
God  searched  for  a  Ruler  to  sceptre  the  land, 

And  gather  the  harvest  from  the  seed  He  had  sown. 
He  found  a  young  shepherd  boy  watching  his  flock 

Where  the  mountains  looked  down  on  deep  meadows  of 
green ; 
He  hailed  the  young  shepherd  boy  king  of  the  land 

And  anointed  his  brow  with  a  Chrism  unseen. 
He  placed  in  his  frail  hands  the  sceptre  of  power, 

And  taught  his  young  heart  all  the  wisdom  of  love ; 
He  gave  him  the  vision  of  prophet  and  priest, 

And  dowered  him  with  counsel  and  light  from  above. 
But  alas !  came  a  day  when  the  shepherd  forgot 

And  heaped  on  his  realm  all  the  woes  that  war  brings, 
And  bartering  his  purple  for  the  greed  of  his  heart 
He  lost  both  the  sceptre  and  Chrism  of  Kings. 


I 


Elizabeth  Roberts  MacDonald 

The  old  Rectory  of  Frcdericton,  N.B.,  has  been  aptly  called 
'A  Nest  of  Sini^ing  Birds,'  for  it  ivas  there  that  the  four 
brothers  and  one  sister  of  the  famous  Roberts'  family  zvere 
fledglings;  it  was  there  they  tried  their  eager  icings  in  many 
flights  of  imagination,  and  piped  their  new  and  tuneful  songs. 

Elizabeth  Roberts  zvas  born  in  the  Rectory  of  ll'estcock. 
N.B.,  February  17th,  1864.  and  was  educated  at  the  Collegiate 
School,  Fredericton,  and  at  the  Xew  Brunszcick  University. 
She  taught  for  a  time  in  the  School  for  the  Blind.  Halifax, 
N.S.  Poems  of  hers  have  appeared  in  the  'Century.'  the  -In- 
dependent,' 'Outing'  and  other  prominent  magaci)ies.  a)id  in 
1906,  her  book,  'Dream  Verses  and  Others,'  was  published. 
She  has  the  instinctive  knowledge  and  love  of  nature  and  the 
exquisite   fancy   and   touch,  so   characteristic   of   this  family. 

.Mrs.  MacDonald  is  the  author  also  of  'Our  Little  Canadian 
Cousin.'  a  popular  child's  story,  and  has  zcritten  many  charm- 
/;/"  essays  and  short  stories. — The  Htlitor. 


(2211 


Elizabeth  Roberts  MaoDoiiald 


MRS.  C.  F.  FRASER  has  written  beautifully  in  East  and 
West  of  the  old  Fredericton  Rectory  and  its  happy,  bril- 
liant inmates,  of  which  I  quote: 

The  gift  in  which  so  many  have  thus  happily  participated  is  in 
great  degree  a  matter  oi  happy  inlieritancc.  "Dear  Rector  Roberts' — 
for  so.  irrespective  of  creed,  a  whole  town  styled  him — was  a  culti- 
vated, scholarly  gentleman  of  old  English  descent.  So  devoted  was 
he  to  his  chosen  work  of  service  to  others,  so  companionable  was  he 
with  all  his  helpful  goodness,  so  constant  was  he  to  his  vision  of  the 
ideal,  that  it  was  truly  said  of  him  when  he  was  laid  to  rest,  that 
his  whole  life  had  been  a  veritable  path  of  light.  The  maiden 
name  of  his  widow.  Emma  Wetmore  Bliss,  is  suggestive  of  a 
tine  loyalist  stock  which  has  given  scholars,  lawyers  and  judges  to 
succeeding  generations.  Wise,  gracious,  purposeful,  ambitious  always 
for  the  best  efforts  of  her  children,  and  patient  as  only  mothers  can 
he.  she  entered  as  wholly  as  did  her  husband  into  the  literary  pursuits 
of  her  gifted  offspring. 

Of  winter  evenings  the  favourite  gathering  place  was  about  the 
great  centre  table  in  the  sitting-room,  where  the  young  people  were 
wont  to  read  aloud  for  each  other's  amusement  or  edification  the 
rhymes  or  stories  which  the  day  had  called  forth.  Spirited  discussions 
frequently  arose,  but  the  utmost  good  humour  prevailed  and  final  deci- 
sions on  most  questions  were  sought  and  accepted  from  the  father's 
store  of  wit  and  erudition,  or  from  the  quiet  mother  seemingly  so  fully 
occupied  with  the  contents  of  her  great  mending  basket.  Bright 
brains  sharpened  bright  brains,  and  thus,  all  unconsciously,  the  in- 
formal gathering  gave  a  training  which  no  school  or  carefully  planned 

course   of   study   could  have   achieved In   summer   weather 

the  great  old-fashioned  garden,  haunt  of  all  fragrant  and  time-for- 
gotten flowers,  was  the  favourite  meeting  place.  There,  in  and  about 
the  hammocks,  with  their  cousin,  Bliss  Carman,  extending  his  great 
length  on  the  turf  below,  and  shaggy  Nestor,  wisest  and  most  under- 
standing of  household  dogs,  wandering  about  from  one  to  another  for 
a  friendly  word  or  pat.  and  a  score  of  half-tamed  wild  birds  fluttering 
and  twittering  in  the  trees  above,  the  young  people  did  indeed  see 
visions  and  dream  dreams.  It  is  of  this  scented  garden  that  Elizabeth, 
the  sister,  who  though  too  fragile  to  companion  her  stirring  brothers 
in  the  active  sports  in  which  they  delighted,  and  yet  their  leader  when 
the  elysian  pastures  were  to  be  attained,  sings  so  beautifully  in  her 
book.  Dream   I'crses  and  Others. 

Staff  Sergeant  S.  A.  R.  MacDonald,  husband  of  Elizabeth 
Roberts,  is  in  charge  of  the  Dispensary  of  the  Canadian  Special 
Hospital  at  Ramsgate,  England.  Of  this  marriage,  the  eldest 
of  two  sons.  Cuthbert  Goodridge,  is  already  contributing  to 
magazines. 


Elizabeth  Roberts  MacDontild  223 


I 


N  the  original  copy,  the  following  poems  from  Dream 
Verses  and  Others  were  included  by  consent  of  the  author: 
'Voices,'  'The  Spell  of  the  Forest,'  The  House  Among  the 
Firs,'  'The  Fire  of  the  Frost,'  'White  Magic,'  'The  Signal- 
Smokes'  and  'Dreamhurst.'  But  as  permission  to  use  them 
could  not  be  procured  from  her  Boston  publisher,  Mrs.  Mac- 
Donald  kindly  sent  us  these  new  poems  for  insertion : 

The  Whispering  Poplars 

1HEAR  the  whispering  poplars 
In  the  hollow  by  my  door; 
They  sound  like  fairy  waters 

Beside  a  magic  shore, 
They  sound  like  long-lost  secrets 

Of  childhood's  golden  lore, — 
The  murmuring,  nodding  poplars 
In  the  hollow  by  my  door. 

All  night  they  talk  together 

Beneath  the  silent  sky ; 
The  mountains  crouch  beyond  them, 

The  blue  lake  sleeps  near  by, — 
But  still  the  silver,  sibilant 

Small  voices  laugh  and  sigh, 
Talking  all  night  together 

Beneath  the  silent  sky. 

Flood-Tide 

WHEN  the  sea  sobs  by  lonely  shores, 
Bleak  shores,  with  shattered  boulders  strown, 
When  the  dark  wind  my  soul  implores 
And  claims  me  for  its  own. — 

How  weak,  how  frail  the  bars  that  part 

This  hour  from  unforgotten  years ; 
The  dykes  of  time  are  down ;  my  heart 

Is  swept  with  love  and  tears. 


224  Elizabeth  Koberts  MacDonald 

Mountain- Ash 

ALL  the  hills  are  dark, 
Sombre  clouds  afloat; 
Sunlight,  not  a  spark, 

Birdsong,  not  a  note; 
Only,  through  the  blight, 
Facing  winter's  night. 

Flaunts  the  mountain-ash 
Scarlet  berries  bright. 

Like  a  flame  of  love. 

Like  a  lilt  of  song 
Lifted  sheer  above 

Cares  that  press  and  throng, 
Through  the  darkling  day, — 
Scarlet  set  in  grey — 

Splendid  mountain-ash 
Gleams  along  the  way. 

March  Wind 

THE  dark  Spring  storm  swept  up 
From  some  forgotten  shore. 
The  rain  beat  on  my  window 

The  same  tune  o'er  and  o'er. 
And  the  wind,  the  maker  of  poets, 
Sobbed  at  my  door. 

'Give  me  thy  heart,'  he  cried, 
'To  blow  from  sea  to  sea, 

To  fill  with  lonely  fear, 
To  taunt  with  bitter  glee; 

Give  me  thy  heart ;  I'll  give 
My  song  to  thee.' 

Now  nay,  but  Love  forbid! 

What  comes  my  heart  must  bear, 
But  forth  on  sorrow's  trail 

In  truth  it  shall  not  fare. 
Nor  would  I  learn  the  song 

Hope  may  not  share. 


Elizabeth  Roberts  MacDonald  225 


But  all  night  long  the  wind 

Sobbed,  and  would  not  forget 
Its  burden  of  by-gone  years, 

Sadness,  and  vain  regret, — 
O  longing  heart,  what  goal 

For  thee  is  set? 

Harvest 

RICH  days  there  are  when  wisdom,  love,  and  dream 
Leave  their  high  heaven  and  close  beside  us  keep, 
With  comrade-steps,  from  dawn  to  happy  sleep; 
When  golden  lights  on  paths  familiar  gleam,         ' 
And  life's  strong  river  leaps,  a  singing  stream, 
Through  countless  wonders  toward  a  mystic  deep ; 
When  every  field  has  gold  for  thought  to  reap. 
And  faint  and  far  life's  wintry  troubles  seem, 

This  wheat  of  gladness  garner,  oh  my  heart ; 

With  songs  of  gladness  bring  the  harvest  home 

And  under  sheltering  eaves  its  bounty  store, — 

Then,  when  the  snows  drift  deep  about  your  door 

And   grey   wolf-winds   through   desolate   woodlands   roam, 

To  all  who  need,  the  magic  hoard  impart. 

Reassurance 

NOW  lucent  splendours,  amethyst  and  gold 
And  clearest  emerald,  flood  the  western  sky, 
Though  all  day  long  dark  clouds  were  heaped  on  high 
And  angry  winds  went  racing,  icy-cold ; 
But  calm  has  come  with  sunset,  and  behold 
Where  late  the  pageantry  of  storm  went  by. 
What  dream-bright  majesties  of  colour  lie 
Across  the  solemn  depths  of  space  unrolled. 

All  beautiful  things  the  heart  of  man  can  dream. 

Deep  joy  unfaltering,  love  fulfilled  that  fears 

No  parting  evermore  nor  any  tears. 

Youth's  dear  desires  like  beacon-lights  that  gleam, — 

When  sunset's  luminous  miracle  appears 

How  sure,  how^  close  those  heights  of  gladness  seem! 


226  Elizabeth  Koberts  MacDonald 


The    Shepherd 

AMONG  the  hills  of  night  my  thoughts 
Go  wandering  lost  and  lorn ; 
No  rest  they  find,  or  gleam  of  light 

To  solace  them  till  morn; 
Stumbling  they  fare,  and  know  not  where 

Safe  pasturage  to  win; 
O  Shepherd  Sleep,  across  the  steep 
Go  out  and  call  them  in! 

An   errant  flock,   they   follow   far 

By  bitter  pools  of  tears. 
Lured  on  by  Memory's  lonely  voice 

And  tracked  by  stealthy  fears; 
But  wanderings  cease,  doubt  sinks  in  peace, 

If  once  the  fold  they  win ; 
O  Shepherd  Sleep,  across  the  steep 

Go  out  and  call  them  in ! 


A  Madrigal 

SPRING  went  by  with  laughter 
Down  the  greening  hills, 
Singing  lyric  snatches, 

Crowned  with  daffodils; 
Now,  by  breath  of  roses 
As  the  soft  day  closes 
Know  that  April's  promise 
June  fulfills. 

Youth  goes  by  with  gladness 
Faery  woodlands  through, 

Led  by  starry  visions. 
Fed  with  honey-dew; 

Life,  who  dost  forever 

Urge  the  high  endeavor. 

Grant  that  all  the  dreaming 
Time  brings  true! 


Albert  D.  Watson 


There  is  no  rhetorical  aping  of  a  style  above  his  degree, 
but  the  honest  and  genuine  expression  in  language  always 
dignified,  frequently  distinguished,  and  at  times  }nost  felicitous 
of  thoughts,  which,  to  a  large  extent  didactic,  are  yet  illumined 

with  the  creative  power  of  life  itself 'His  word 

zvas  a  zvhitc  light,'  he  says,  in  speaking  of  'The  Crusader,'  in 
a  line  zvhich  may  be  the  most  eloquent  in  the  book,  and  it  may 
be  applied  to  Dr.  ll'atson's  ozvn  work.  His  word  is  a  zvhite 
light,  and  its  purity  is  lacki)ig  neither  in  icarmth  nor  strength. 
.  .  But  the  greater  part  of  the  volume  is  giz'oi  to  a 
group  of  biographical  sketches  in  monologue  form,  entitled 
'The  Immortals,'  i^'hcrc  twenty-six  of  the  great  ones  of  earth 
zi'ho  have  appealed  to  Dr.  Watson's  iinagi}iation  ami  sympa- 
thies, arc  made  to  summarise  their  life  ami  times  by  a  flash- 
like gli)npsc.  That  there  is  really  notable  zcork  here  is  un- 
questionable, and  the  catholic  sympathies  of  the  poet  are  evi- 
dent in  the  Zi'idely  z-arying  subjects  chosen. — Albert  E. 
St AFi'oKD.    in    the   "SuiKlax-    World.'   Toronto. 

[227) 


228  Albert  D.  Watson 


POETIC  genius  is  necessarily  innate — it  cannot  be  acquired. 
But  given  the  genius,  assiduous  effort  can  greatly  develop 
tlic  hcautv.  strength  and  music  of  its  expression.  This  can  be 
seen  clearly  by  a  comparison  of  Dr.  Albert  D.  Watson's  first 
and  second  books  of  verse.  The  Wing  of  the  Wild-Bird  was 
published  in  1908.  and  while  it  contains  a  few  poems  of  merit, 
the  work  as  a  whole  is  not  notable.  Five  years  later  appeared 
his  Love  and  the  Universe,  the  Immortals  and  Other  Poems, 
a  book  of  such  value  that  it  placed  him  at  once  among  the 
greater  poets  of  Canada. 

Albert  Durrant  Watson,  AI.D. :  L.R.C.P.(  Edin. )  was  born 
in  Dixie,  county  of  Peel,  Ontario,  the  8th  of  January,  1859, 
— the  youngest  son  of  the  late  William  Youle  and  Mary  A. 
(Aldredj  Watson.  His  maternal  grandfather  fought  in  Wel- 
lington's cavalry  in  the  Peninsula  and  at  Waterloo. 

Dr.  Watson  was  educated  at  the  Toronto  Normal  School, 
and  at  Victoria  and  Edinburgh  Universities,  and  for  more  than 
thirty  years  has  practised  his  profession  in  the  city  of  Tor- 
onto. During  this  period,  he  has  found  time  also  for  much 
public  service  in  connection  with  important  official  positions, 
and  is  now  President  of  the  Royal  Astronomical  Society  of 
Canada,  and  Treasurer  of  the  Social  Service  Department  of 
the  Methodist  Church. 

In  September,  1885,  Dr.  Watson  was  married  to  Sarah,  a 
daughter  of  the  late  Samuel  Clare,  of  Toronto.  Mr>.  Watson 
is  interested  in  sculpture  and  has  developed  artistically  in 
clay-modelling. 

Two  prose  works  of  merit  have  added  to  the  reputation  of 
this  author, — The  Sovereignty  of  Ideals,  published  in  1904, 
and  The  Sovereignty  of  Character:  Lessons  from  the  Life 
of  Jesus,  in  1906.  The  latter,  one  of  the  noblest  of  readable 
books,  was  republished  in   1914,  in  London,  England. 

A  third  prose  work.  Three  Comrades  of  Jesus,  will  be  issued 
before  the  close  of  1916. 

His  national  hymn,  written,  in  1915,  for  the  melody, 
'O  Canada'  together  with  five  other  selections  from  his  sacred 
poems,   are   included   in   the   new    Methodist    Hymnal. 

Dr.  and  Mrs.  Watson  have  three  sons  and  two  daughters. 
One  son  is  in  the  Imperial  Transport  Service, — aircraft  de- 
fence. 


Albert  D.  Watson  229 

Dream-Valley 

I   KNOW  a  vale  where  the  oriole  swings 
Her  nest  to  the  breeze  and  the  sky, 
The  iris  opens  her  petal  wing^ 
And   a  brooklet   ripples  by ; 
In  the  far  blue  is  a  cloud-drift, 
And  the  witch-tree  dresses, 
With  a  rare  charm  in  the  warm  light, 
Her   long  dream-tresses. 

But  yestermorn — or  was  it  a  dream? 

When  daisies  were  drinking  the  dew, 
I  wandered  down  by  the  little  stream, 

And  who  was  there  but  you? 
Though  nature  smiled  with  the  old  joy 

To  the  boldest  comer, 
It  was  your  voice  and  the  wild-bird's 

Were  the  soul  of  summer. 

When  bowed  with  the  toils  of  many  years, 

I  would  rest,  if  it  be  Love's  will, 
In  a  vale  where  the  bird  songs  to  my  ears 

Come  floating  across  the  hill. 
With  the  sweet  breath  of  the  June  air 

And  the  purple  clover, 
And  the  lone  dream  of  the  old  love, 

And  the  blue  skies  over. 

From  '  Love  and  the  Universe  ' 

THE  voiceless  symphony  of  moor  and  highland. 
The  rainbow  on  the  mist. 
The  white  moon-shield  above  the  slumber-island, 

The  mirror-lake,  star-kist. 
The  life  of  budding  leaf  and  spray  and  branches. 

The  dew  upon  the  sod. 
The  roar  of  downward-rushing  avalanches, 
Are  eloquent  of  God. 

My  eye  sweeps   far-extended  plains  of  vision 
And  golden  seas  of  light; 


230  Albert  D.  AVatsoii 

Upon  my  ear  fall  cadences  elysian, 

Like  music   in   the  night; 
But  all  the  glories  to  my  sense  appealing 

Can  no  such  raptures  win 
As  come  with  majesty  and  joy  of  healing 

From  love  and  light  within. 

How  shall  the  Universe  its  own  creation, 

Life  of  its  life,  destroy? 
How  bring  to  nothingness  of  desolation 

The  soul  of  its  own  joy? 
The  echo  of  itself,  not  merely  fashioned 

Of  clay,  God's  outer  part, 
But  fibre  of  His  being,  love-impassioned, 

The  glory  of  His  heart ! 

Drive  on,  then,  Winds  of  God,  drive  on  forever 

Across  the  shoreless  sea; 
The  soul's  a  boundless  deep,  exhausted  never 

By  full  discovery. 
The  atmosphere  and  storms,  the  roll  of  ocean, 

The  paths  by  planets  trod. 
Are  time-expressions  of  a  Soul's  emotion. 

Are  will  and  thought  of  God. 
In  storm  or  calm,  that  soundless  ocean  sweeping 

Is  still  the  sailor's  goal; 
The  destiny  of  every  man  is  leaping 

To  birth  in  his  own  soul. 

Breeze  and  Billow 

A    FAIR  blue  sky, 
A   far  blue  sea. 
Breeze  o'er  the  billows  blowing! 
The  deeps  of  night  o'er  the  waters  free, 
With  mute  appeal  to  the  soul  of  me 
In  billows  and  breezes  flowing; 

The  stars  that  watch 

While  sunbeams  sleep. 

Breeze  o'er  the  billows  blowing! 


AlboTt  D.  Watson  231 

The  soft-winged  zephyrs  that  move  the  deep 
And  rock  my  barque  in  a  dreamy  sweep; 
The  moonHght  softly  glowing; 

The  glint  of  wave, 

The  gleam  of  star, 

Breeze  o'er  the  billows  blowing! 

The  surf-line  music  on  beach  and  bar, 

The  voice  of  nature  near  and  far, 

The   night   into   morning  growing; 

And  I  afloat 

With  canvas  free, 

Breeze  o'er  the  billows  blowing! 

At  one  with  the  heart  of  eternity, 

The  fair  blue  sky  and  the  far  blue  sea, — 

And  the  breeze  o'er  the  billows  blowing. 

The  Comet 

SPECTRAL,  mysterious,  fiame-like  thing 
Cleaving  the  western  night, 
Waking   from  chrysalis-dream  to  fiing 
Out  of  thy  spirit's  long  chastening 
Far-flashing  streams  of  light, 

Tell  us  thy  thought  of  the  things  that  are; 

How  doth  the  morning  sing? 
What  hast  thou  seen  in  the  worlds  afar? 
Tell  us  thy  dream,  O  thou  silvery  star, 

Bird  with  the  white-flame  wing. 

What  though  the  glow  of  thy  fading  ray 

Dim  and  elusive  seem. 
Constant  thou  art  to  the  sun's  bright  sway 
Faithful  and  true  in  thy  tireless  way. 

True  in  thy  spectral  gleam. 

Rising  anew  from  thine  ancient  pyre. 

Vapour  and  dust  thy  frame. 
Still  art  thou  Psyche,  the  soul's  desire, 
Wingless,  save  when  from  reefs  of  fire 

Mountins"  in  shaft  of  flame. 


232  Albert  D.  Watson 

The  Sacrament 

THE  World  was  builded  out  of  flame  and  storm. 
The  oak,  blast-beaten  on  the  hills,  stands  forth, 
Stalwart  and  strong".     The  ore  is  broken,  crushed 
And  sifted  in  the  fiery  crucible ; 
The  remnant  is  pure  gold.     Brave  hearts  must  dare 
The  billowy  surge  beneath  the  stern  white  stars 
To  net  the  finny  harvests  of  the  sea. 
No  boon  is  won,  but  some  true  hero  dies. 

Therefore  is  every  gift  a  sacrament. 

And  every  service  is  a  holy  thing, — 

Not  unto  him  whose  filthy  pence  unearned 

The  treasure  buys,  but  to  the  one  who  takes 

The  gift  with  reverence  from  that  unknown 

Who  went  forth  brave  and  strong,  came  broken  back, 

But  won  for  us  a  rare  and  priceless  pearl. 

The  Lily 

EMBLEM  of  beauty  and  sorrow, 
Twine  with  each  wistful  to-morrow 
The  past  with  its  memories  teeming 
And  all  its  dear  innocent  dreaming. 

Go  thou,  O  Lily,  and  o'er  her  cast 
The  drifting  breath  of  the  wind-swept  hills ; 
Sing  her  the  music  of  forest  rills; 

Whisper  a  dream  of  the  sacred  past; 
Lie  on  her  heart  till  the  angels  wake 
Her  deathless  love  for  the  old  time's  sake. 

Still  to  that  love  I  am  turning 
Though  beyond  reach  of  my  yearning; 

And  never  the  vision  shall  vanish 

Nor  time  nor  eternity  banish 
That  dream  so  splendid  of  love  and  tears 
That  still  transfigures  the  lonely  years. 

Go,  Lily,  go  with  my  love  and  lie 
Close  to  her  heart  and  never  die; 


Albert   D.  Watson  -^^ 


To  her  with  my  love  I  bequeath  you, 
Fair  as  the  glow  of  the  golden  sky 
When  twilight  falls  and  the  breezes  sigh, 

Sweet  as  the  bosom  beneath  you, 
Pure  as  the  dew  on  the  glistening  sod. 
White  as  the  snowflake,  perfect  as  God. 

God  and  Man 

GOD  is  eternity,  the  sky,  the  sea. 
The  consciousness  of  universal  space. 
The  source  of  energy  and  living  grace, 
Of  life  and  light,  of  love  and  destiny, 
God  is  that  deep,  ethereal  ocean,  free, 

Whose  billows  keep  their  wide  unbarriered  place 
Amid  the  stars  that  move  before  His  face 
In  robes  of  hurricane  and  harmony. 

A  light  that  twinkles  in  a  distant  star, 
A  wave  of  ocean  surging  on  the  shore, 
One  substance  with  the  sea ;  a  wing  to  soar 

Forever  onward  to  the  peaks  afar, 

A  soul  to  love,  a  mind  to  learn  God's  plan, 
A  child  of  the  eternal— such  is  man. 

A  Prayer 

OTIIOU  whose  finger-tips, 
From  out  the  unveiled  universe  around. 
Can  touch  my  human  lips 
With  harmonies  beyond  the  range  of  sound ; 

Whose  living  word, 
All  vital  truth  revealing. 

My  soul  hath  stirred 
To  raptures  holy,  comforting  and  healing; 

Beneath,  around,  above, 
Breathe  on  me  atmospheres 

Of  universal  Love — 
The  music  of  the  timeless  years; 


234  Albert  D.  Watson 

Upon  my  soul, 
Pour  vast  eternities  of  might, 

Up  through  my  being  roll 
Deep  seas  of  light 

To  urge  me  onward  to  the  Goal, 

The  Infinite,  the  Whole. 

From  '  The  Hills  of  Life ' 

ERE  yet  the  dawn 
Pushed  rosy  fingers  up  the  arch  of  day 
And  smiled  its  promise  to  the  voiceless  prime. 
Love  sat  and  patterns  wove  at  life's  great  loom. 

He  flung  the  suns  into  the  soundless  arch. 

Appointed  them  their  courses  in  the  deep. 

To  keep  His  great  time-harmonies,  and  blaze 

As  beacons  in  the  ebon  fields  of  night. 

Love  balanced  them  and  held  them  firm  and  true. 

Poised  'twixt  attractive  and  repulsive  drift 

Amid  the  throngs  of  heaven.    What  though  this  power 

Was  ever  known  to  us  as  gravity, 

Its  first  and  last  celestial  name  is  Love. 

Love  spake  the  word  omnipotent,  and  lo ! 

Upon  the  distant  and  mid  deep,  the  earth 

Was  flung,  robed  in  blue  skies  and  summer  lands, 

Green-garlanded  with  leaves  and  bright  with  flowers. 

While  songsters  fluttered  in  the  rosy  skies. 

But  sometimes,  moaning  through  the  dark-leaved  pines. 

Or  sobbing  down  the  lonely  shores  of  time. 

Or  wailing  in  the  tempest-arch  of  night. 

Love  moved  unresting  and  unsatisfied. 

The  faces  of  the  hills  in  beauty  smiled. 

The  night's  deep  vault  blazed  with  configured  stars. 

Fair  nature  throbbed  through  all  her  frame  of  light. 

And  everywhere  was  Love's  fine  energy; 

But  fields  and  forests,  flowers  and  firmaments 
Had  not  attained  to  understand  the  throb 
And  thrill  of  life,  so  Love  made  human  hearts 
That  mightily  could  feel  and  understand ; 


Albert  D.  Watson  230 

Made  them  his  constant  home,  centre  and  sweep, 
Channel  and  instrument  of  life  and  truth, 
The  word  of  God  on  earth,  Love's  other  self, 
The  high  ambassadors  of  truth  and  light ; 
And  Love  was  free  where  Life  was  wholly  true. 

Cromwell 

SAY  not  to  me: 
'Cromwell,  thou  diest.'     Save  thy  timid  breath. 
Do  not  the  wild  winds  noise  it  o'er  the  world? 
Shall  he  alone  who  made  God's  word  his  guide 
And  put  the  yoke  of  England  on  the  seas 
Not  know  the  face  of  death  when  all  God's  foes 
Whisper  and  say :  'The  Lord   Protector  dies'  ? 

Suppose  ye  he  will  tremble,  gasp,  turn  pale. 

At  hint  of  death,  which  he  so  often  dared  ? 

Life's  shuttle  drifts  across  the  w'eb  of  time, 

And  if  posterity  see  but  one  strand 

Of  purpose  fair,  or  trace  amid  the  woof 

One  feeble  pattern  to  some  worthy  end, 

Life  was  not  vain.     My  sword  my  spokesman  was ; 

It  speaks  no  more,  yet  all  the  world  doth  know 

It  curbed  the  pride  of  kings. 

Play  not  the  role 
Of  simulated  tears,  but  draw  ye  near, 
For  there  are  some  words  still  Cromwell  would  say. 
Even  though  his  word  be  silent.     Nearer  still. 
Lest  nature's  furious  voice  baffle  your  ears 
With  roaring  winds  and  thunders  pierced  with  fire. 
The  toils  of  state — these  do  not  matter  much ; 
But  that  the  people  love  not  righteousness, 
Know  not  reality,  bowing  their  souls 
To  musty  precedents — that  matters  much. 
That  warders  of  the  realm  would  still  with  words 
The  groans  that  from  the  battle's  whirlwind  call, 
With  paper  promises  and  inky  lies 
Would  heal  the  hurt  of  England,  matters  more. 
That  they  whose  thought  doth  show  no  real  fact ; 
Whose  words  show  something  other  than  their  thought : 
13 


236  Albert  D.  Watson 


Whose  office,  tricked  with  gaudy  trappings,  struts 
So  loud  with  blare  of  brass  they  cannot  hear 
The  voice  of  God;  so  big  with  littleness, 
They  cannot  see  the  lawful  rights  of  man- 
That  matters  all. 

This   too   remember  well — 
I  learned  it  late:  None  but  a  tyrant  makes 
That  good  prevail  that  is  not  in  men's  hearts, 
And  tyranny  is  questionable  good. 
Therefore  must  all  men  learn  by  liberty, 
And  with  what  pain  their  doings  on  them  bring. 

Give  these  my  words  to  those  who  care  to  hear ; 
My  thanks  to  you  that  ye  report  them  true, 
And  for  your  patience  now.     I  cannot  hear 
Your  words,  nor  can  I  more,  so  stand  apart. 
That,  undistracted  by  the  storms  of  state 
Or  any  human  presence,  I  may  come 
Before  the  King  of  kings  in  hope  and  faith 
For  pardon  of  my  sins. 

Usury 

HEIR  to  the  wealth  of  all  the  storied  past, 
A  thousand  generations  pour  their  life 
Into  this  heart  of  mine; 
'Twere  base  indeed  if  these  should  be  the  last, 
Life's  standard  bearing  in  some  noble  strife, 
To  advance  the  battle  line. 

Let  life  grow  richer  by  its  cost  to  me. 

Till  hope,  too  strong  for  dream  of  weak  despair. 
Seize  each  momentous  goal; 
No  monster  of  chimeric  mystery, 

Or  fabled  horror  with  its  deathful  stare, 
Palsy  my  dauntless  soul. 

Lord  of  this  heritage  of  life  and  hope, 

Dowered  with  what  gifts  the  ages  could  achieve 
By  dint  of  toil  and  tears, 
I,  in  my  turn,  with  some  new  problem  cope. 
And  gratefully  the  sure  solution  leave 
For  all  the  coming  years. 


Isabel  Ecclestone  Mackay 

Mrs.  Isabel  Ecclcsto)ic  Mackay  is  one  of  the  cleverest 
ivriters  we  have.  She  is  a  Wmcoiiver  lady,  one  zchose  ivork 
both  in  prose  and  verse  is  fi)idini^  a  high  place  in  the  United 
States  and  in  England.  In  prose  she  displays  a  keen,  analy- 
tical mind,  a  genius  for  nezi'  ideas,  and  a  style  that  is  easy  and 
convincing.  In  poetry  she  has  a  philosophic  turn,  an  artful 
and  subtle  conception  of  a  circumstance.  On  the  other  hand, 
as  a  zvriter  i)i  a  beautiful  lyrical  style,  she  has  few  superiors 
in  these  days. — 'Canadian  Magazine.' 

ft  is  perhaps  tiot  too  much  to  sax  that  no  other  Canadian 
writer  is  producing  work  equal  in  strength,  beauty  a)id  baUuice. 
to  that  of  Mrs.  Mackay. — ^'Toronto  Daily  News.' — editorially. 

Mrs.  Mackay  lias  a  sensitive  ear  for  the  music  of  words  and 
an  instinctive  feeli)ig  for  rhythm.  She  has  both  imagina- 
tion and  humour,  atid  a  keen  appreciation  of  the  Z\.'Onderful 
and  the  beautiful. — John  M.\uki;\.  editor  of  the  'Sentinel- 
Review.'   Woodstock.  (  )ntario. 


;2371 


23^  Isabel  Ecclestoiie  ^Mackay 


T 


O  her  leachers  and  classmates,  in  the  Woodstock  schools, 
she  was  known  as  "Bell  MacPherson.'  and  many  remem- 
ber vividly  her  eager,  glowing  face, — her  warm,  sensitive 
heart.  She  was  so  ready  to  Avork,  so  ambitious  to  achieve,  so 
happy  to  have  pleased.  These  qualities,  together  with  the  na- 
tural tendency  to  write,  have  given  her  the  ])roud  position  she 
holds  to-dav.  There  has  been  another  strong  motive  force  in 
her  career,  since  her  marriage, — her  kn'c  of  children.  "There 
is  nothing  so  sweet  as  a  baby,'  she  will  tell  you.  and  indeed  the 
Madonna  passion  has  inspired  and  coloured  much  of  her  prose, 
and  not  a  little  of  her  verse. 

Isabel  Ecclestone  Mackay  was  born  in  Woodstock.  (Ontario, 
November  25th.  1875. — a  daughter  of  Donald  McLeod  Mac- 
Pherson. a  native  of  Scotland,  and  his  wife,  Priscilla  Eccle- 
stone, of  England.  She  was  educated  in  the  local  public 
schools  and  Collegiate  Institute.  In  April.  1895.  she  married 
Air.  P.  T.  Mackay,  Court  Stenographer,  and  is  now  the  mother 
of  three  interesting  daughter^, — Phyllis.  ?^Iargaret,  and  Janet 
Priscilla. 

Mrs.  Mackay's  work  has  appeared  in  Cassel's,  Harpers, 
Scrihners.  Independent,  McCIures,  St.  Nicholas,  Youth's  Com- 
panion. Red  Book.  Life,  Ainslees.  Smart  Set.  Metropolitan, 
Canadian  Mai!;aaine.  and  other  periodicals  of  note.  In  1904, 
she  published  a  book  of  verse.  Betiveen  the  Lights,  but  most 
of  her  magazine  verse,  since,  has  been  of  much  higher  quality, 
— in  originality  of  thought,  constructive  imagination,  and  artis- 
tic expression.  Her  two  poem-.  'Marguerite  de  Roberval,'  and 
"The  Passing  of  Cadieux" — each  of  which  won  for  the  author, 
$100.00,  in  the  Globe's  prize-poem  competitions — stand  out 
for  their  excellence  of  treatment  of  those  historic  themes. 
Serial  stories  of  merit  from  her  pen  have  appeared  in  the 
Canadian  Courier  and  the  Canadian  Home  Journal  and  in 
1912.  Cassell  &  Co.  brought  out.  The  House  of  Windows,  a 
novel,  of  which  The  Anthencrum  said:  'Possesses  a  charm  of 
fresh  straightforwardness :  tlie  ])ictures  of  life  are  vivid  and 
well  drawn" :  and  the  London  Times:  'An  enjoyable  tale,  of 
much  fresh,  wholesome  >entiment'. 

Mrs.  Mackay  has  recently  completed  a  new  novel.  Yester- 
day's Servant:  which  will  be  published  soon.  A  sec«jnd  volume 
of  her  poems  may  also  be  lofjked  for  at  an  early  date. 


Isabel  Ecclestone  Mackay  239 

The  Mother 

LAST  night  he  lay  within  my  arm, 
So  small,  so  warm,  a  mystery 
To  which  God  only  held  the  key — 
But  mine  to  keep  from  fear  and  harm ! 

Ah !  He  was  all  my  own,  last  night. 

With  soft,  persuasive,  baby  eyes. 

So  wondering  and  yet  so  wise. 
And  hands  that  held  my  finger  tight. 

Why  was  it  that  he  could  not  stay — 
Too  rare  a  gift?     Yet  who  could  hold 
A   treasure   with   securer   fold 

Than  I,  to  whom  love  taught  the  way? 

As  with  a  flood  of  golden  light 

The  first  sun  tipped  earth's  golden  rim, 
So  all  my  world  grew  bright  with  him 

And  with  his  going  fell  the  night — 

0  God,  is  there  an  angel  arm 

More  strong,  more  tender  than  the  rest? 
Lay  Thou  my  baby  on  his  breast. 
To  keep  him  safe  from  fear  and  harm! 

Out  of  Babylon 

THEIR  looks   for  me  are  bitter, 
And  bitter  is  their  word — 

1  may  not  glance  behind  unseen, 
I  may  not  sigh  unheard! 

So  fare  we  forth  from  Babylon, 

Along  the  road  of  stone ; 
And  none  looks  back  to  Babylon 

Save  I — save  I  alone! 

My  mother's  eyes  are  glory-filled, 

Save  when  they  fall  on  me ; 
The  shining  of  my  father's  face 

I  tremble  when  I  see. 

For  they  were  slaves  in  Babylon, 
And  now  they're  walking  free — 


240  Isabel  Ecclestone  Mackay 

They   leave  their   chains   in   Babylon, 
I  bear  my  chains  with  me ! 

At   night    a    sound   of    singing 

The  vast  encampment  fills ; 
'Jerusalem !  Jerusalem !' 

It  sweeps  the  nearing  hills — 

But  no  one  sings  of  Babylon, — 

Their  home  of  yesterday — 
And  no  one  prays  for  Babylon, 

And  I — I  dare  not  pray ! 

Last  night  the  Prophet  saw  me, 

And  while  he  held  me  there 
The  holy  fire  within  his  eyes 

Burned  all  my  secret  bare. 

'What!     Sigh  you  so  for  Babylon?' 

(I  turned  away  my  face) 
'Here's  one  who  turns  to  Babylon, 

Heart-traitor  to  her  race!' 

I  follow  and  I  follow, 

My  heart  upon  the  rack ! 
I   follow  to  Jerusalem — 

The  long  road  stretches  back 

To  Babylon,  to  Babylon ! 

And  every  step  I  take 
Bears  farther  off  from  Babylon 

A  heart  that  cannot  break! 

Marguerite  de  Roberval 

OTHE  long  days  and  nights!     The  days  that  bring 
No  sunshine  that  my  shrinking  soul  can  bear, 
The  nights  that  soothe  not.     All  the  airs  of  France, 
Soft  and  sun-steeped,  that  once  were  breath  of  life. 
Now  stir  no  magic  in  me.     I  could  weep — 
Yet  can   I   never   weep — to  see  the  land 
That  is  my  land  no  more!     For  where  the  soul 
Doth  dwell  and  the  heart  linger,  there 
Alone  can  be  the  native  land,  and  I  have  left 


Isjibel  Eeclestoiie  Mackay  241 

Behind  me  one  small  spot  of  barren  earth 
That  is  my  hold  on  heav'n ! 

You  bid  me  tell 
My  story?     That  were  hard.     I  have  no  art 
And  all  my  woVds  have  long  been  lost  amid 
The  g-reater  silences.     The  birds — they  knew 
My  grief,  nor  did  I  feel  the  need  of  speech 
To  make  my  woe  articulate  to  the  wind! 
If  my  tale  halts,  know  'tis  the  want  of  words 
And  not  the  want  of  truth. 

'Twas  long,  you  say? 
Yes,  yet  at  first  it  seemed  not  long.    We  watched 
The  ship  recede,  nor  vexed  them  with  a  prayer. 
Was  not  his  arm  about  me?     Did  he  not 
Stoop  low  to  whisper   in   my  tingling  ear? 
The  little  Demon-island  was  our  world, 
So  all  the  world  was  ours — no  brighter  sphere 
That  swung  into  our  ken  in  purple  heaven 
Was  half  so  fair  a  world!    We  were  content. 
Was  he  not  mine?    And  I  (he  whispered  this) 
The   only   woman  on   love's   continent! 
How  can  I  tell  my  story?     Would  you  care 
To  hear  of  those  first  days?     I  cannot  speak 
Of  them — they  lie  asleep  so  soft  within 
My  heart  a  word  would  wake  them?    I'll  not  speak  that  word 

There  came  at  last  a  golden  day 
When  in  my  arms  I  held  mine  own  first-born, 
And  my  new  world  held  three     And  then  I  knew. 
Mid  joy  so  great,  a  passion  of  despair! 
I  knew  our  isle  was  barren,  girt  with  foam 
And  torn  with  awful  storm.     I  knew  the  cold. 
The  bitter,  cruel  cold!     My  tender  babe. 
What  love  could  keep  him  warm?     Beside  my  couch 
Pale    famine   knelt   with   outstretched,   greedy   hand, 
To  snatch  my  treasure  from  me.     Ah,  I  knew, 
I  knew  what  fear  was  then ! 

We  fought  it  back, 
That  ghost  of  chill  despair.    He  whom  I  loved 


242  Isabel  Ecclestone  Mackay 

Fought  bravely,  as  a  man  must  fight  who  sees 
His  wife  and  child  defenceless.     But  I  knew — 
E'en  from  the  first — the  unequal  strife  would  prove 
Too  long,  the  fear  too  keen!     It  wore  his  strength 
And  in  his  eyes  there  grew  the  look  of  one 
Who  grapples  time,  and  will  not  let  it  go, 
Yet  feels  it  slipping,  slipping — 

Ah,  my  dear! 
I  saw  you  die,  and  could  not  help  or  save — 
Knowing  myself  to  be  the  awful  care 
That  weighed  thee  to  thy  grave! 

The  world  held  two 
Now — one  so  frail  and  small,  and  one  made  strong 
By  love  and  weak  by  fear.     That  little  life! 
It  trembled  in  my  arms  like  some  small  flame 
Of  candle  in  a  stealthy  draught  that  blows 
And  blows  again — one  never  knows  from  whence. 
Yet  feareth  always — till  at  last,  at  last, 
A  darkness  falls !    So  came  the  dark  to  me — 
And  it  was  night  indeed! 

Beside  my   love 
I  laid  my  lovely  babe.     And  all  fear  fled; 
For  where  joy  is  there  only  can  fear  be. 
They  fear  not  who  have  nothing  left  to  fear! 

So  that  is  all  my  tale.     I  lived,  I  live 

And  shall  live  on,  no  doubt.    The  changeful  sky 

Is  blue  in  France,  and  I  am  young — think  you 

I  am  still  young!    Though  joy  has  come  and  passed 

And  I  am  gazing  after  with  dull  eyes! 

One  day  there  came  a  sail.    It  drew  near 
And  found  me  on  my  island,  all  alone — 
That  island  that  had  once  held  all  the  world — 
They  succoured  me  and  bought  me  back  again 
To  sunny  France,  and  here  I  falter  through 
This  halting  tale  of  mine.     And  now  'tis  told 
I  pray  you  speak  of  it  no  more ! 
If  I  would  sleep  o'  nights  my  ears  must  close 
To  that  sad  sound  of  waves  upon  the  beach. 


Isabel  Ecclostorio  Mackay  243 

To  that  sad  sound  of  wind  that  waileth  so ! 

To  visions  of  the  sun  upon  the  sea 

And  green,  grass-covered  mounds,  bleak,  bleak,  but  still 

With  early  flowers  clustering  here  and  there ! 

[When  the  Sieur  de  Roberval,  appointed  Viceroy  of  Canada  by 
Francis  I.,  sailed  for  his  new  possessions,  he  took  with  him  his  niece, 
the  lovely  and  high-spirited  Marguerite  de  Roberval.  A  cavalier  of 
Picardy,  who  loved  her,  but  was  too  poor  to  ask  her  hand  in  marriage, 
joined  the  company  as  a  volunteer,  but  on  the  voyage  out  the  affection 
of  the  young  people  was  discovered  by  de  Roberval,  who  was  so 
enraged  that  he  devised  a  terrible  punishment.  Near  Newfoundland 
was  a  solitary  island,  called  the  Isle  of  Demons,  because  of  the 
strange  waitings  of  the  wind  over  the  rocks,  and  here  Marguerite 
was  abandoned.  Her  lover,  however,  succeeded  in  escaping  his  guards, 
and  swam  to  shore.  They  built  such  shelter  as  they  could,  and  this  is 
the  first  European  family  home  of  which  we  ktiow  in  Canada.  After 
some  years  Marguerite  was  rescued  by  a  fishing  boat  and  restored  to 
France,  but  not  until  both  husband  and  child  were  dead.  The  poem 
contains  her  story,  told  by  herself,  upon  her  arrival  in  France. — 
Author's  Note.] 

The  Passing  of  Cadieux 

THAT  man  is  brave  who  at  the  nod  of  fate 
Will  lay  his  life  a  willing  offering  down. 
That  they  who  loved  him  may  know  length  of  days; 
May  stay  awhile  upon  this  pleasant  earth 
Drinking  its  gladness   and  its   vigour   in, 
Though   he  himself  lie  silent  evermore, 
Dead  to  the  gentle  calling  of  the  Spring. 
Dead  to  the  warmth  of  Summer ;  wrapt  in  dream 
So  deep,  so  far,  that  never  dreamer  yet 
Has  waked  to  tell  his  dream.     Men  there  may  be 
Who,  careless  of  its  worth,  toss  life  away. 
A  counter  in  some  feverish  game  of  chance, 
Or,  stranger  yet,  will  sell  it  day  by  day 
For  toys  to  play  with ;  but  a  man  who  knows 
The  love  of  life  and  holds  it  dear  and  good, 
Prizing  each  moment,  yet  will  let  it  go 
That  others  still  may  keep  the  precious  thing — 
He  is  the  truly  brave ! 

This  did  Cadieux. 
A  man  who  loved  the  wild  and  held  each  day 


244  Isabel  Ecclestone  Mackay 


A  gift  from  Le  Bon  Dieu  to  fill  with  joy 

And  offer  back  again  to  Him  who  gave. 

(See,  now,  Messieurs,  his  grave!)     We  hold  it  dear 

The  story  you  have  heard — but  no?     'Tis  strange, 

For  we  all  know  the  story  of  Cadieux ! 

He  was  a  Frenchman  born.    One  of  an  age 

That  glitters  like  a  gem  in  history  yet, 

The  Golden  Age  of  France !    Twould  seem,  Messieurs, 

That  every   country  has   a   Golden  Age? — 

Ah   well,   ah  well! — 

But  this  Cadieux,  he  came 
No  one  knew  whence,  nor  cared,  indeed,  to  know. 
His  simple  coming  seemed  to  bring  the  day, 
So  strong  was  he,  so  gallant  and  so  gay — 
A  maker  of  sweet  songs;  with  voice  so  clear 
'Twas  like  the  call  of  early-soaring  bird 
Hymning  the  sunrise ;  so  at  least  'twould  seem 
Mehwatta  thought— the  slim  Algonquin  girl 
Whose  shy  black  eyes  the  singer  loved  to  praise. 
She  taught  him  all  the  soft  full-throated  words 
With  which  the  Indian  warriors  woo  their  brides, 
And  he  taught  her  the  dainty  phrase  of  France 
And  made  her  little  songs  of  love,  like  this: 

'Fresh  is  love  in  May 

When   the    Spring   is   yearning, 
Life  is  but  a  lay. 

Love  is  quick  in  learning. 

'Sweet  is  love  in  June : 

All  the  roses  blowing 
Whisper  'neath  the  moon 
Secrets  for  love's  knowing. 

'Sweet  is  love  alway 

When  life  burns  to  embers. 

Hearts  keep  warm  for  aye 
With  what  love  remembers!' 

Their  wigwam  rose  beside  the  Calumet 
Where  the  great  waters  thunder  day  and  night 
And  dawn  chased  dawn  away  in  gay  content. 


Isabel  Ecclestoue  Mackay  245 

Then  it  so  chanced,  when  many  moons  were  spent, 

The  brave  Cadieux  and  his  brown  brothers  rose 

To  gather  up  their  wealth  of  furs  for  trade ; 

And  in  that  moment  Fate  upraised  her  hand 

And,  wantonly,  loosed  Death  upon  the  trail, 

Red  death  and  terrible — the  Iroquois! 

(Oh,  the  long  cry  that  rent  the  startled  dawn!) 

One  way  alone  remained,  if  they  would  live — 

The  Calumet,  the  cataract — perchance 

The  good  Saint  Anne  mig'ht  help ! 

'In  God's  name,  go ! 
Push  off  the  great  canoe,  Mehwatta,  go! — 
Adieu,  petite  Mehwatta!     Keep  good  cheer. 
Say  thou  a  prayer ;  beseech  the  good  Saint  Anne ! — 
For  two  must  stay  behind  to  hold  the  way, 
And  shall  thy  husband  fail  in  time  of  need? 
And  would  Mehwatta's  eyes  behold  him  shamed  ? — 
Adieu !' — Oh,  swift  the  waters  bear  them  on ! 
Now  the  good  God  be  merciful !     .     .     .     . 

They  stayed, 
Cadieux  and  one  Algonquin,  and  they  played 
With  a  bewildered  foe,  as  children  play, 
Crying  'Lo,  here  am  I!'  and  then  Xo,  here!'  'Lo,  there!' 
Their  muskets  spoke  from  everywhere  at  once — 
So  swift  they  ran  behind  the  friendly  trees, 
They  seemed  a  host  with  Death  for  General — 
And  the  fierce  foe  fell  back. 

But  ere  they  went 
Their  winged  vengeance  found  the  Algonquin's  heart. 
Cadieux  was  left  alone ! 

Ah,  now,  brave  soul, 
Began  the  harder  part!     To  wander  through 
The  waking  woods,  stern  hunger  for  a  guide ; 
To  see  new  life  and  know  that  he  must  die; 
To  hear  the  Spring  and  know  she  breathed  'Adieu' !     .     .     . 
One  wonders  what  strang'e  songs  the  forest  heard, 
What  poignant  cry  rose  to  the  lonely  skies 
To  die  in  music  somewhere  far  above 


2ifi  Isabel  Ecelestone  Mackaj^ 

Or  fall  in  sweetness  back  upon  the  earth — 
The  requiem  of  that  singer  of  sweet  songs ! 
They  found  him — so — with  cross  upon  his  heart, 
His  cold  hand  fast  upon  this  last  Complaint — 

'Ends  the  long  trail — at  sunset  I  must  die ! 

I  sing  no  more —  O  little  bird,  sing  on 

And  flash  bright  wing  against  a  brighter  sky ! 

'Sing  to  my  Dear,  as  once  I  used  to  sing; 
Say  that  I  guarded  love  and  kept  the  faith — 
Fly  to  her,  little  bird,  on  swifter  wing. 

'The  world  slips  by,  the  sun  drops  down  to-night — 

Sweet  Mary,  comfort  me,  and  let  it  be 

Thy  arms  that  hold  me  when  I  wake  to  light !' 

[In  the  early  days  there  came  to  the  region  of  the  Upper  Ottawa 
— to  Allumette  and  Calumet — a  voyager  by  the  name  of  Cadieux.  He 
was  more  than  an  ordinary  adventurer,  for  not  only  could  he  fight 
and  hunt  with  the  most  expert,  but  he  could  make  sweet  songs,  words 
and  music,  and  sing  them,  too,  in  a  way  that  was  good  to  hear.  So 
thought,  at  any  rate,  a  pretty  Indian  maiden  of  the  Algonquin  Ottawas, 
whom  he  won  for  his  wife.  Their  wigwam  stood  near  to  the  Great 
Fall  of  the  Calumet.  After  the  season's  hunting,  Cadieux  and  his 
Indian  friends  were  preparing  to  go  to  Montreal  with  their  accumula- 
tion of  furs,  when,  of  a  sudden,  the  alarm  was  given  of  the  approach, 
through  the  woods,  of  a  war  party  of  their  deadly  enemies,  the  Iro- 
quois. There  was  but  one  means  of  escape.  The  canoe  was  to  be 
committed  to  the  cataract,  while  someone  remained  to  hold  the  Iro- 
quois at  bay.  Cadieux  and  a  single  Algonquin  remained.  The  Iro- 
quois finally  withdrew,  but  not  before  the  Algonquin  was  killed. 
Cadieux,  left  alone,  wandered  for  a  time  in  the  woods  until  he  became 
exhausted.  Returning  at  last  to  Petit-Rocher,  and  feeling  his  end 
approach,  he  made  for  himself  a  grave,  and  set  up  a  rustic  cross  to 
sanctify  his  departure.  His  friends,  returning  to  search  for  him, 
found  him  in  his  grave,  partly  covered  with  leaves  and  branches,  the 
cross  beside  him,  and  his  hands  closed  on  his  last  song,  "La  Com- 
plainte-de  Cadieux." 

The  Lament  is  still  sung  by  the  French-Canadians,  and  the  grave 
of  Cadieux   is  still  an  object  of  veneration. — Author's   Note.] 


Tom  Mclnnes 

This  ronarkablc  collection  of  verse  'Lonesome  Bar  and 
Other  Poems'  is  the  result,  one  must  gather,  of  much  living 
in  flic  realm  of  thought  a)id  imagination,  as  well  as  experience 

of    many    lands    and    people There    is    mystery. 

fluency,  a  charm  and  zvitchery  of  word  which  only  lacks  in 

great   poetical   conviction But   the    best   poem    is 

'The  Damocel  of  Doom,'  an  eerie,  dreamlike,  passionate  piece, 
suggested  by  the  teaching  of  old  Tao.  zcho  believed  that  there 
are  regions  where  dead  souls  may  be  azcahoied  by  desires  so 
strong  that  they  are  drawn  outward  again  to  Earth,  zi'here, 
through  finer  desires,  they  again  pass  into  Paradise.  Then 
'the  peace  of  a  thousand  years  may  be  theirs  in  Limbo'.  .  .  . 
Tlie  coming  of  this  desire,  zchich  shall  ultimately  free,  or 
banish  the  soul  to  ages  of  'utter  -vanishment'  is  depicted  in 
'The  Damozel  of  Doom' — a  poem  worthy  of  the  genius  of 
Poe. — Katiikrixe  Hale,  in  "Mail  and  Empire.' 


[247] 


-48  Toul  McTiiiies 


THOMAS  ROBERT  EDWARD  McINNES  is  a  son  of 
the  late  Hon.  T.  R.  Mclnnes,  ]\I.D..  Senator,  and  subse- 
quently IJeutenant-Governor  of  E>ritish  Columbia.  He  was 
born  at  Dresden.  Ontario.  Oct.  29th.  1867;  was  educated 
at  the  public  and  high  Schools,  and  at  University  College ;  and 
graduated  in  1889  from  the  University  of  Toronto,  with  the 
degree  of  B.A.  In  December  of  the  latter  year,  he  married 
Laura,  second  daughter  of  Dr.  John  Hostetter.  Toronto ;  and 
shortly  afterwards  registered  as  a  student-at-law.  He  was 
called  to  the  Bar.  in  1893. 

In  1896-7  Air.  Mclnnes  was  Secretary  of  the  Behring  Sea 
Claims  Commission ;  and  for  the  balance  of  the  latter  year 
was  a  member  of  the  Yukon  special  police  and  customs  force 
at  Skagway.  In  1898-1900,  he  was  private  secretary  to  his 
father,  the  Lieutenant-Governor;  and  in  1901,  officiated  as 
secretary  of  the  British  Columbia  Salmon  Fisheries  Commis- 
sion. In  1907,  Mr.  Mclnnes  was  specially  commissioned  by 
the  Dominion  Government  to  investigate  'Anti-Oriental  Riots' 
in  British  Columbia,  and  his  secret  report  was  forwarded  to 
the  Imperial  Government  and  acted  upon.  Two  years  later, 
he  was  commissioned  to  make  a  report  on  Indian  title  to  land 
in  Canada.  In  1910,  he  drew  up  the  Canadian  Immigration 
Act.  the  Anti-Opium  Act,  and  the  Dominion  Northwest  Water 
Power  Regulations. 

The  first  book  of  verse  of  this  brilliant  poet,  Lonesome  Bar 
and  Other  Poems,  appeared  in  1909.  His  second,  /;/  Amber 
Lancia,  mostly  a  reprint  of  the  first  book,  was  issued  in  1910. 
And  his  third  volume,  a  work  of  interesting  originality,  en- 
titled, TJie  Rhymes  of  a  Rounder,  was  published  in  1913. 

'Lonesome  Bar,'  a  lengthy  poem,  is  a  thrilling  description 
of  tragic  life  in  the  Klondyke,  in  the  early  days  of  the  rush  for 
gold. 

Originality,  constructive  imagination,  felicitous  fancy,  and 
delightful  humour  fif  sometimes  grim),  combined  with  philo- 
sophic subtlety,  much  experience  of  life,  and  skilled  artistry, 
are  the  outstanding  qualities  of  this  poet,  so  little  known  to 
Canadian  readers,  so  worthy  of  their  appreciation. 

The  Collected  Poems  of  Tom  Mclnnes  will  be  issued  in 
1917. 


Tom  Mclnnes  '^^^ 


The  Damozel  of  Doom 

Part  II 

THAT  dream  came  not  again  to  me, 
Nor  any  dream  at  all ; 
But  well  I  knew,  as  the  days  went  past, 

There  held  me  fast  in  thrall 
A  something  of  that  shrouded  thing 
That  wrapped  me  like  a  pall. 

An  aura  drear  that  severed  me 
From  men  and  the  ways  of  men ; 

As  some  great  evil  I  had  done 
My  friends  did  shun  me  then; 

I  felt  accurst,  and  kept  apart, 
And  sought  them  not  ag^in. 

But  O  how  chill  the  World  did  grew! 

And  the  Sun,  as  a  thing  unreal, 
Did  glare  and  glare  through  the  vacant  day. 

And  never  a  ray  I'd  feel 
To  wann  my  blood,  the  light  fell  thin 

And  gray  as  spectral  steel. 

A  pale  disease  took  hold  on  me. 
And  when  the  night  would  come 

I  had  no  rest,  but  sleepless  lay 
As  stark  as  clay,  and  numb; 

And  could  not  stir  till  dawn  would  break 
Nor  gasp,  for  I  was  dumb. 

And  yet  were  times  all  faintly  tinged 

With   a   glimmering   ecstasy; 
Moments  that  lingered  in  their  flight. 

Trailing  a  light  to  me 
Elusive  and  wan  as  the  phosphor  foam 

That  floats  on  the  midnight  sea. 

And  out  of  my  stricken  body  then 
My  soul  would  seem  to  creep. 

And  over  a  sheer  unfathomed  brink 
Of  silence  sink  asleep, 


250  Tom  Mclnnes 


Beyond  the  shadow  and  sound  of  dreams, 
And  deeper  than  Earth  is  deep. 

Yet  ever  from  those  slumber  spells, 
That  seemed  like  years,  I'd  start 

Sudden  awake,  bewildered  by 
A  presence  nigh  my  heart, 

As  if  a  soul  had  stirred  in  me 
That  of  me  was  no  part. 

And  so  three  seasons  passed  away. 

And  the  early  summer  came ; 
And  still  that  weird  fantasy 

Enshrouded  me  the  same; 
But  now  it  seemed  as  luminous 

With  some  alchemic  flame. 

At  length  in  a  garden  wide  and  old, 

A  garden  all  my  own, 
One  afternoon  I  lay  at  ease 

Under  the  trees  alone. 
While  the  fragrant  day  fell  off  in  the  West 

Like  a  Titan  rose  o'erblown. 

And  lying  there  I  dreamed  once  more, 
And  it  seemed  that  a  scarlet  bird 

Flew  out  of  my  heart  with  a  joyous  cry, 
To  the  topmost  sky,  and  I  heard 

Her  song  come  echoing  down  to  me. 
Yearning  word  on  word: 

'Slow — slow ! 
O  moments — O  ages  slow! 
But  love  shall  be  my  own  again — 

Be  it  moments  or  ages  slow !' 

Illumined 

I   WOKE  in  the  Land  of  Night, 
With  a  dream  of  Day  at  my  heart; 
Its  golden  outlines  vanished, 

But  its  charm  would  not  depart; 


Tom  McTnnes  -^' 


Like  music  still  remaining, 

But  its  meaning — no  man  can  say 
In  the  Land  of  Night  where  they  know  not 

Of  Day,  nor  the  things  of  Day. 

I  dwelt  in  the  chiefest  city 

Of  all  the  Land  of  Night; 
Where  the  fires  burn  ever  brighter 

That  give  the  people  light; 
Where  the  sky  above  is  darkened, 

And  never  a  star  is  seen, 
And  they  think  it  but  children's  fancy 

That  ever  a  star  hath  been. 

But  out  from  that  city  early 

I  fled  by  a  doubtful  way; 
And  faltering  oft  and  lonely 

I  sought  my  dream  of  Day; 
Till  I  came  at  last  to  a  Mountain 

That  rose  exceeding  high, 
And  I  thought  I  saw  on  its  summit 

A  glint  as  of  dawn  from  the  sky. 

'Twas  midway  on  that  Mountain 

That  I  found  an  altar-stone. 
Deep-cut  with  runes  forgotten. 

And  symbols  little  known  ; 
And  scarce  could  I  read  the  meaning 

Of  the  legends  carven  there, 
But  I  lay  me  out  on  that  altar, 

Breathing  an  ancient  prayer: 

'By  the  God  of  the  timeless  Sky, 

0  Saint  of  the  Altar,  say 
What  gift  hast  thou  for  me? 

For  I  have  dreamed  of  Day : 
But  I  seek  nor  gift  nor  power, 

1  pray  for  naught  but  light; 
And  only  for  light  to  lead  me 

Out  of  the  Land  of  Night!' 


252  Tom  Mclnnes 


Long  I  lay  on  that  altar, 

Up-gazing  fearfully- 
Through  the  awful  cold  and  darkness 

That  now  encompassed  me; 
Till  it  seemed  as  I  were  lying  drowned 

Under  a  lifeless  sea. 

There  shone  as  a  pale  blue  Star, 

Intangible — serene — 
And  I  saw  a  spark  from  it  fall 

As  it  were  a  crystal  keen ; 
And  it  flashed  as  it  fell  and  pierced 

My  temples   white  and  cold ; 
Then  round  that  altar-stone  once  more 

The  awful  darkness  rolled. 

But  there  was  light  on  my  brow. 

And  a  calm  that  steeled  me  through, 
And  I  was  strong  with  a  strength 

That  never  before  I  knew ; 
With  a  strength  for  the  trackless  heights, 

And  scorn  of  the  world  below — 
But  I  rose  not  up  from  that  altar-stone, 

I  would  not  leave  it  so. 

'O  Saint  of  the  Altar,  say 
How  may  this  light  redeem? 

For  though  on  my  brow  like  a  jewel 
Its   Star   hath   left  a   gleam, 

O  Saint,  'tis  a  light  too  cold  and  cruel 
To  be  the  light  of  my  dream!' 

Anon  'twas  a  crimson  Star 

That  over  the  Altar  shone, 
And  there  sank  as  a  rose  of  flame 

To  my  heart  ere  the  Star  was  gone; 
And  out  from  the  flames  thereof 

A  subtle   fragrance  then 
Went  stealing  down  the  mountain-side 

O'er  the  lowly  ways  of  men. 


i 


Tom  McTimes  -^^ 


The  Star  was  gx)ne,  but  it  brout^ht 

To  light  in  its  crimson  glow 
The  lovely  things   forgotten 

I  dreamed  of  long  ago ; 
And  gladly  then  I  had  given 

My  life  to  all  below ; 
Yet  I  rose  not  up  from  the  altar-stone, 

I  would  not  leave  it  so. 

And  at  last  was  a  golden  Star; 

But  I  scarce  know  how  nor  where; 
For  it  melted  all  around  me, 

And  the  other  Stars  were  there: 
And  all  in  one  blissful  moment 

The  light  of  Day  had  come ; 
Then  I  reeled  away  from  that  altar-stone, 

Old,  and  blind,  and  dumb. 

I  dwell  again  in  the  city, 

I  seek  no  more  for  light ; 
But  I  go  on  a  mission  of  silence 

To  those  who  would  leave  the  Night ; 
And  for  this — and  this  thing  only, 

Through  the  evil  streets  I  stray; 
I  who  am  free  to  the  timeless  Sky 

Illumined    forever   with   Day. 


o 


Underground 

N   a  queer,  queer  journey 
I  heard  the  queerest  sound, — 
'Twas  the  Devil  with  a  banjo 

In  a  cavern  underground, 
Where  the  merry,  merry  skeletons 
Were  waltzing  round  and  round, 
While  the  clicking  of  their  bones  kept  time. 

Through  a  low,  iron  door, 

With  a  huge  iron  bar, 
A  door  perchance  some  careless 

Imp  had  left  ajar. 


254  Tom  Mclnnes 


I  crept  behind  a  column  cut 
All  out  of  Iceland  spar, 
And  the  carven  angles  twinkled   frostily. 

I  was  frightened  of  the  Devil, 
And  I  wouldn't  look  at  him, 

But  I  watched  a  thousand  goblins 
From  nook  and  cranny  dim 

A-glowering  on  the  skeletons. 
And  every  goblin  grim 
And  ugly  as  an  old  gargoyle. 

And  bogles  played  on  fiddles 

To  help  the  banjo  out, 
For  'twas  nothing  but  the  music 

Kept  alive  that  crazy  rout; 
But  the  big  green  toads  could 

Only  hop  about 
To  the  rumbling  of  the  bass  bassoon. 

Behind  the  Iceland  column 
I   watched  them  on  the  sly, 

Above  them  arched  the  cavern 
With  its  roof  miles  high, 

All  ribbed  with  blue  rock-crystal,  shining 
Bluer  than  the  sky. 
And  studded  with  enormous  stalactites. 

But  the  lovely  floor  below, 

With  its  level  crystalline 
Splendid  surface  spreading 

Radiantly  green! — 
As  if  a  lone,  impearled  lake 

Of  waters  subterrene 
Had  frozen  to  a  flawless  emerald! 

And  down,  down,  down. 

Its  moveless  depths  were  clear; 

And  down,  down,  down. 
In  wonder  I  did  peer 

At  lost  and  lovely  imagery 
Beneath  me  far  and  near, — 
Silent  there  and  white  forevermore. 


Tom  McTnnes  255 


But  from  the  sunken  beauty 

Of  that   white   imagery 
Lissome  shadows  loosened 

Flame-like  and  fitfully, 
That  formed  anon  to  spheres  serene 

And  mounted  airily 
And  broke  in  golden  bubbles  through  the  floor. 

There,  bubble-like,  they  vanished 

Amid  the   whirling  crew, 
Yet  left  a  radiance  trailing 

Slowly  out  of  view, 
That  sometimes  o'er  the  skeletons 

Such  carnal  glamour  threw, 
It  flattered  them  to  human  shape  again. 

How  long  I  watched  I  know  not ; 

The  weird  hours   went  on, 
Lost  hours  that  bring  the  midnight 

No  nearer  to  the  dawn, 
When  suddenly  I  felt  a  clutch, 

And  swiftly  I  was  drawn 
From  out  behind  that  carven  block  of  spar. 

My  soul ! — a  skeleton  ! — 

A  rattling  little  thing, 
Twined  itself  about  me 

As  close  as  it  could  cling ! 
And  in  its  arms  with  horror  I 

Perforce  'gan  circling 
Compelled  by  that  fantastic  orchestra. 

Onward    swept    the    waltzers 

To  the  wicked  tunes  they  played. 

And   soon   we   were  amongst   them, 
And  my  rattling  partner  swayed 

Whene'er  the  golden  bubbles  broke, 
And  trailing  lights  arrayed 
Elusively  around  its  naked  bones. 


A  minute  or  an  hour, — 
Or  maybe  half  a  night. — 
14 


256  Tom  Mclnnes 


No  matter,  for  at  last 

I  was  over  all  my  fright, 
And  the  music  rippled  through  me  till 

I  shivered  with  delight, 
Fascinated  like  the  fat  green  toads. 

And  by  and  by  I  noticed 

How  'mid  that  grisly  swarm 
My  clinging  little  partner 

'Gan  strangely  to  transform, — 
I  saw  the  bones  as  through  a  mist 

Of  something  pink  and  warm, 
That  quivered  and  grew  firm  from  top  to  toe. 

Bright  copper-coloured  hair 

Soon  round  her  did  curl, 
Her  mouth  grew  sweet  with  tints 

Of  coral  and  of  pearl, 
And  she  looked  on  me  with  eyes  that  seemed 

Of  lambent  chrysoberyl. 
While  her  body  fair  as  alabaster  shone. 

A  witch  she  was  so  lovely, 

To  all  else  I  was  blind, 
And  the  Devil  and  the  Goblins 

And  the  Rout  we  left  behind. 
In  our  wild  waltz  whirling  on 

The  cool  sweet  wind 
Of  the  lone  lorn  caverns  underground. 

Like  rose-leaves  strewn 

Upon  a  crystal  tide, 
Like  thistle-down  blown 

By  Zephyrs   far  and   wide, 
We  swept  in  aimless  ecstasy, 

Silent  side  by  side, 
Careening  through  those  caverns  underground. 

A  minute  or  an  hour, — 

Or  maybe  half  a  night, — 
No  way  have  I  to  measure 

The  madness  of  that  flight. 


Tom  Me  Times  25'; 


For  the  I()u^e^c(l  zone  of  witchery 
Made  drunk  with  sheer  delight, 
Till  we  sank  in  happy  stupor  to  the  floor. 

Nearby  there  was  a  grotto 

That  opened  chapel-wise, 
As  from  a  rich  cathedral. 

In  sacrilegious  guise ; 
On  the  high  Masonic  altar  were 

Three  crystal  chalices, 
And  they  held  the  sweetest  poisons  Hell  can  brew. 

One  was  a  liquor  golden 

That  sparkled  like  the  dew, 
One  was  a  wine  that  trembled. 

And  blood-red  was  its  hue, 
But  the  last  Lethean  elixir 

Was  dark  as  night,  shot  through 
With  glimmerings  of  green  and  violet. 

Then  rose  the  witch  and  muttered, 

'Quick,   for  the  hour  is  late ! 
Quick  ere  the  music  ceases 

And  the  locks  of  the  dungeons  grate 
O'er  the  host  of  haunted  skeletons 

That  here  brief   revel   make ! 
Come  free  me  by  this  altar's  alchemy ! 

'Drink   thou   the   gXDlden    liquor 
That  lights  yon  jewelled  rim, — 

That  sparkles  fair  as  sunshine 
On    curls    of    seraphim ! 

Drink  for  the  love  I  gave  thee ! 

Or  drink  for  a  devil's  whim ! 

But  pledge  me  to  the  time  that  yet  shall  be ! 

'But  the  gloomy  elixir 

Give  me,  that  I  may  sleep 
With  the  white  wraiths  that  slumber 

In  the  dim  green  deep ! 
Where  the  silence  of  the  under-world 

Shall  wrap  me  round  and  keep 
My  soul  untouched  by  any  dreams  of  day!' 


258  Tom  Mclnnes 


I  drank  the  cup  of  sunshine, 

She  drank  the  cup  of  night, 
But  the  red  we  spilled  between  us 

For  sacrifice  and  plight 
Of  passion  that  must  centre  in 

The  sphereless  Infinite 
Ere  her  sweet  life  shall  mix  with  mine  again. 

A  moment  all  her  beauty 

Was  lightened  as  with  fire, 
Her  fair  voluptuous  body 

With  its  trailing,  loose  attire, 
And  her  eyes  to  mine  did  glow  as  in 

A  sunset  of  desire, — 
Then  prone  she  fell  upon  the  chapel  floor. 

And  the  white  flesh  wasted  from  her 

As  she  was  falling  dead, 
Her  very  bones  had  crumbled. 

Ere  one  farewell  I  said, — 
From  sight  of  that  dire  sorcery 

In  wild  dismay  I  fled, 
Seeking  madly  for  the  low  iron  door. 

Behind  the  Iceland  column 

I   found  it   still  ajar, — 
Through  galleries  of  darkness 

I  travelled  swift  and  far, 
Until  I  reached  the  upper-world 

And  saw  the  morning  star 
Paling  o'er  a  meadow  by  the  sea. 

From  *  Lonesome  Bar  * 

YET  oft,  to  hear  the  echoes  ring  and  stir 
That  vacant  valley  like  a  dulcimer, 
I  flung  her  name  against  the  naked  hills. 
And  crimsoned  all  the  air  with  thoughts  of  her. 


Helen  M.  Merrill 

In  Picton.  Ontario,  there  Ihrs  a  very  clever  Canadian  poetess 
zvlio  writes  witli  the  mystery  of  nature  around  her  and  the 
key  to  its  secrets  in  her  heart.  Helen  M.  Merrill  n'os  born 
to  the  poetic  purple.  Her  gift  as  a  singer  is  a  goiuine  one. 
Her  zi'ork  rei'eals  a  mi)id  in  close  sympathy  zvith  nature  zvhose 
subtle  influence  has  moulded  and  fashioned  her  highest  and 
holiest  dreams.  Not  always  is  the  thought  of  poetry  born  poetry 
— more  frequently  is  it  incarnated  in  prose,  then  cradled  and 
clad  in  the  flowers  of  poetry.  The  test  of  true  poetry  is  that  it 
cannot  be  translated  into  prose  without  doing  violence  to  its 
spirit.  Xow  it  will  be  found  that  Miss  Merrill's  poetry  meas- 
ures up  to  this  test.  It  is  thought,  born  on  the  mountain  top 
and  clad  in  the  most  fitting  raiment.  Miss  Merrill  has  not  yet 
published  her  poenis  in  book  form,  but  her  work  has  found 
representation  in  all  recent  compilations  of  Canadian  z'crse. 
— Dr.  Thomas  O'Hagax,  in  "Donahoe's  Magazine."  1901. 


r2.-)i)] 


260  Helen  .AI.  Merrill 

HELEN  M.  MERRILL  is  a  tlaughter  of  the  late  Edwards 
Merrill.  County  Court  Judge,  at  Picton,  Ontario,  and 
Caroline  Wright.  She  was  born  at  Xapanee.  Ontario,  but 
was  educated  in  the  schools  of  Picton  and  at  Ottawa  Ladies 
College. 

INIiss  Merrill  is  of  French  Huguenot  extraction,  her  first 
American  ancestor  having  landed  on  this  continent  in  1633. 
He  was  one  of  the  founders  of  Newbury  Port.  The  family 
coat-of-arms  has  the  fleur-de-lis  on  the  shield. 

Since  1905  Miss  IMerrill  has  resided  with  her  mother  in 
Toronto,  and  for  some  years  has  been  a  member  of  the  staff 
of  the  Ontario  Bureau  of  Archives.  In  this  position  her  work 
has  been  of  recognized  merit.  Having  made  a  special  study 
of  New  (Jntario.  she  has  contributed  several  series  of  valuable 
articles,  topographical  and  relating  to  colonizing  conditions, 
etc..  on  our  great  northlands.  And  in  collaboration  with  Dr. 
Wilfred  Campbell,  of  Ottawa,  she  has  for  some  time  been 
gathering  material  for  a  historical  and  genealogical  work 
on  the  L^nited  Empire  Loyalists  of  Canada. 

At  the  Sir  Isaac  Brock  Centenary  Commemoration  at  Oueen- 
ston  Heights,  Ontario,  she  officiated  as  honorary  secretary, 
and  also  went  through  the  ceremony  of  adoption  into  the  Oneida 
Band  of  the  Six  Nations  Indians.  She  was  presented  with 
the  tribal  totem,  and  was  given  the  Indian  name,  Ka-ya- 
tonhs — 'a  keeper  of  records.' 

Miss  Merrill  is  President  of  the  Canadian  Society  for  the 
Protection  of  Birds ;  Honorary  General  Secretary  of  the 
United  Empire  Loyalists'  Association  of  Canada;  and  a  Coun- 
cillor of  the  Canadian  Defence  League.  And  as  a  great  grand- 
daughter of  Dr.  J.  B.  Chamberlain,  who  emigrated  from  the 
United  State-;  to  Canada,  before  1791,  she  has  been  elected  a 
member  of  The  Chamberlain  Association  of  America  and  of 
The  Society  of  Colonial  Families,  Boston,  Massachusetts. 

Since  the  Great  War  began.  Miss  Merrill  has  interested 
herself  much  in  collecting  funds  for  the  Belgians,  and  has 
been  appointed  by  Madame  \'andervelde,  wife  of  the  Belgian 
Minister  of  State,  as  her  representative  in  Canada  for  further 
collections. 


IIclcMi  M.  Morrill  -*^- 

Bluebirds 

O    MAGIC  music  of  the  Sj^riiig', — 
Across  the  morning's  breezy  meads 
1  hear  the  south  wind  in  the  reeds, 
I   hear   the  golden   bluebirds  sing. 

0  mellow  music  of  the  morn, — 
Across  the  fading  fields  of  Time 
How  many  joyous  songs  are  borne 
From  memory's  enchanting  clime. 

1  see  the  grasses  shine  with  dew, 
The  cornflowers  gleaming  in  the  grain, 
And,  oh!  the  bluebirds  sing — and  you? 
We  fare  together  once  again. 

0  haunting  music  of  the  dusk, 
When  silent  birds  are  on  the  wing 
And  sweet  is  scent  of  pine  and  musk — 
Oh,  as  we  wander  hand  in  hand 
Across  the  shadow-painted   land, 

1  hear  the  golden  bluebirds  sing ! 

Sandpipers 

MORNING  on  the  misty  highlands, 
On  the  outer  shining  islands ; 
Gulls   their  grey   way   seaward   winging 

To  the  blinking  zones  of  blue ; 
South  winds  in  the  shallows  singing 

Where  I  wander  far  with  you. 
Little  pipers,  careless,  free, 
On  the  sandlands  by  the  sea. 

All  day,  on  the  amber  edges 
Of  the  pools  and  silver  ledges 
Of  the  sedgelands  in  the  sun, 
Restlessly  the  pipers  run — 

IVeet,  a-iveet,  a-zvect,  a-weet! 
Sun  and  wind  and  sifting  sand, 


262  Helen  M.  Merrill 


Joy  of  June  on  sea  and  land — 
Weet,  a-weet,  a-weet,  weet  weet! 

Evening  on  the  fading  highlands, 
On  the  outer  amber  islands; 
Grey  wings  folded  in  the  sedges, 
In  the  glimmer  of  a  star 
Where  the  lamps  of  Algol  are 
Shining  on  a  world's  white  edges. 

Moonlight  on  the  sombre  forelands, 
On  the  outer,  silver  shorelands; 
Peaceful  mists  that  pale  and  drift 
Seaward  like  a  phantom  fleet, 
Through  a  sapphire,  shadowed  rift. 

Weet,  a-weet,  a-zveet,  zveet  zveet! 
Night,  and  stars,  and  empty  hushes, 
Darkness  in  the  purple  rushes — 

Weet,  a-zveet,  a-zveet,  zveet  zveet! 

When  the  Gulls  Come  In 

WHEN  the  gulls  come  in,  and  the  shallow  sings 
Fresh  to  the  wind,  and  the  bell-buoy  rings, 
And  a  spirit  calls  the  soul  from  sleep 
To  follow  over  the  flashing  deep; 

When  the  gulls  come  in  from  the  fields  of  space. 

Vagrants  out  of  a  pathless  place, 

Waifs  of  the  wind  that  dip  and  veer 

In  the  gleaming  sun  where  the  land  lies  near, — 

Long  they  have  wandered  far  and  free. 
Bedouin  birds  of  the  desert  sea; 
God  only  marked  their  devious  flight, 
God  only  followed  them  day  and  night, — 

Sailor  o'  mine,  when  the  gulls  come  in, 
And  the  shallow  sings  to  the  bell-buoy's  din. 
Look  to  thy  ship  and  thy  gods  hard  by. 
There's  a  gale  in  the  heart  of  the  golden  sky. 


Helen  M.  Merrill  263 

In  Arcadie 

THE  sea  is  green,  the  sea  is  grey, 
The  tide  winds  blow,  and  shallows  chime ; 
Where  earth  is  rife  with  bloom  of  May 
The  throstle  sings  of  lovers'  time. 
Of  violet  stars  in  lovers'  clime. 
Love  fares  to-day  by  land  and  sea. 
On  the  horizon's  utmost  hill 
The  mystic  blue-flower  beckons  still 
Beneath  the  stars  of  Arcadie. 

Love   fares  to-day,  and  deftly  builds 

To  melodies  of  wind  and  leaves ; 
Castles   in    Spain   yet   brightly   gilds, 

And  song  of  star  and  woodbird  weaves, 

And  flowers,  and  pearl  and  purple  eves. 
With  roofs  of  ever-changing  skies 

And   fretted  walls  with  time  begun, 

Its  portals  open  to  the   sun. 
On  dream-held  hills  a  castle  lies. 

No    proud   armorial   bearing's   now. 

But  God's  white  seal  on  every  leaf ; 
No  sapphire  gleaming  on  my  brow. 

Deep  in  my  heart  a  dear  belief; 

No  grey  unrest,  no  pain,  no  grief. 
By  day  a  forest  green  and  fair. 

Where  veeries  sing  in  secret  bowers 

And  lindens  blow  and  little  flowers. 
And  bluebirds  cleave  the  shining  air. 

By  night  a  quiet  wayside  grove 

Where  Aldebaran  lights  the  gloom, 
And  silent  breezes  idly  rove 

Above  a  shadow-painted  room 

Builded  of  many  a  bough  and  bloom — 
A  wafted  air  of  myrrh  and  musk. 

The  music  of  slow  falling  streams, 

A  whitethroat  singing  in  its  dreams, 
And  thou  beside  me  in  the  dusk. 


264  Helen  M.  Merrill 

A  Hill  Song 

THERE  is  a  little  hint  of  spring-, 
A  subtle,  silent,  unseen  thing 
By  shadowed  wall  and  open  way, 
And  I,  a  gypsy  for  the  day, 
Go  straying  far  beneath  the  sky, 
And   far   into   the   windy   hills, 
Where  distant,  dim  horizons  lie, 

And  earth  with  gleams  of  heaven  fills. 

My  quest  is  but  a  singing  bird, 
Whose  voice  on  uplands  lone  is  heard. 
And  this  my  path  where  none  hath  been. 
And  this  my  tent,  an  evergreen; 
The  hills  are  mine  own  open  way — 

I  hate  the  smother  of  the  town — 
I  love  by  breezy  hills  to  stray, 

Where  thawing  streams  come  leaping'  down. 

Oh,  joy  it  is  and  free  of  care. 

With  the  sun  and  the  wind  in  my  face  and  my  hair, 

Alone  with  the  shining  clouds  which  trail 

Silently  each   like  a  phantom   sail, 

Over  the  hills,  on  the  blue  of  heaven ; 

Oh,  joy  it  is  to  wander  here. 
Where  the  wilding  heart  of  the  young,  sweet  year, 

Quickens  the  earth,  and  spring  is  near! 

And  joy  it  is,  the  shorelark's  cry — 
Full  well  I  know  he  walketh  by ; 
A  sudden  winnow  of  grey  wings. 
And  in  the  light  he  soars  and  sings. 
And  pausing  in  his  heavenward  flight, 
A  heart-beat,  on  from  height  to  height. 
He  trails  his  silver  strains  of  song 
By  paths  eye  may  not  follow  long; 
Grey  glimpses  in  the  azure  fade, 

I  only  hear  sweet  sounds  in  the  skies 
As  if  the  soul  of  song  had  strayed 

Invisible  from  paradise. 


Dr.  J.  D.  Logan 

The  -writer  says  in  his  Preface  that  his  work  is  no  better  and 
no  -worse  than  -what  might  readily  be  accomplished  by  a)iy 
man  cf  education  and  literary  instincts.  Thus  it  -will  be  seen 
that  Dr.  Logan  does  not  claim  to  be  a  poet.  But  -what  he 
-writes  is  so  essentially  national,  so  stro>ig  in  spirit,  and  deals 
so  closely  -with  what  is  good  material  for  poetry  that  'Songs 
of  the  Makers  of  Ca)iada'   is  the  most  authentic  little  book 

of  Canadian  poetry  that  -we  hai'c  this  year Leaz'- 

ing  discussion  of  Canadian  nationalism  for  the  moment  to 
one  side,  -where  else  can  one  find  poetry  -which  is  as  fair  an 
attempt  to  e.v press  Xiagara,  as  Dr.  Logan's  poem,  'The  O-'er- 
Song  of  Niagara'?  The  indix'idual  finds  at  Niagara  what  he 
brings  there,  but  this  searchi)ig  out  of  a  mood  is  far  nearer 
the  e.vpression  of  the  indescribable  Niagara  than  the  mere 
e.vclamations  of  -wonder  -which  precipitate  -writers  goierally 
call  the  poetry  of  N^iagara. — MarjoriiC  MacMurciiv  in  the 
"Canadian  Conrier.' 


[265] 


266 Dr.  J.  D.  Looan 

AX  outstanding"  figure  in  present-day  Canadian  literary 
circles  is  John  Daniel  Logan,  M.x\.,  Ph.D., — outstand- 
ing' as  a  writer  of  original  and  scholarly  treatises  on  aca- 
demic subjects,  as  a  critic  of  literature  and  of  music,  and 
as  a  poet.  .  Xow,  Sergeant  Logan,  of  the  Xova  Scotia  High- 
land brigade,  and  'Brigade  Historian  and  Keeper  of  the  Seals.' 

Dr.  Logan  was  born  in  Antigonish,  Xova  Scotia,  on  May 
2nd,  1869, — the  eldest  son  of  Charles  and  Elizabeth  Gordon 
(Rankin)  Logan.  He  was  educated  at  Pictou  Academy,  at 
Dalhousie  L'niversity,  and  at  Harvard  University.  From  Dal- 
housie  he  graduated  with  highest  honours  in  Philosophy  and 
with  the  degree  of  B.A.,  in  1893,  and  was  granted  his  M.A. 
the  following  year.  While  engaged  in  postgraduate  work 
at  Harvard,  he  had  the  distinction  to  win  the  Derby,  Price 
Greenleaf  and  Thayer  scholarships,  and  to  receive  the  degrees 
of  A.]\L  and  Ph.D.     The  latter  degree  was  conferred  in  1896. 

During  the  next  five  years  he  was  a  practical  educator,  hold- 
ing the  Principalship  of  Hampton  Academy.  Xew  Hampshire, 
in  1898,  and  for  the  remaining  four  years,  the  Professorship 
of  English  and  Philosophy,  in  the  State  University  of  South 
Dakota. 

Retiring  from  the  teaching  profession,  he  was  emplo}'ed  for 
several  years  as  advertising  specialist  for  Siegel.  Cooper  & 
Co.,  of  Chicago  and  Xew  York. 

In  1908-10,  he  was  literary  and  nmsic  critic  for  the  Sunday 
World,  Toronto,  and  later  was  a  member  of  the  staff  of  the 
Toronto  Daily  .Wcws. 

The  followng'  are  Dr.  Logan's  principal  publications:  The 
Structural  Principles  of  Style,  1900;  Preludes,  So)iiiets  and 
Other  Verses,  1906;  The  Relii^ious  Function  of  Comedy.  1907; 
Quantitative  Punctuatioti,  1907;  Democracy,  Education  and 
the  .Wti'  Dispensation,  1908;  The  Making  of  the  Neiv  Ire- 
land, 1909;  Songs  of  the  Makers  of  Canada,  and  Other  Home- 
land Lyrics,  1911  ;  and  Insulters  of  Death.  1916. 

Last  winter  Dr.  Logan  delivered  a  series  of  lectures  on 
Canadian  Literature,  in  Acadia  University,  Wolfville,  X.S.,  the 
first  of  the  kind  ever  delivered  in  a  Canadian  University. 

The  Great  War  and  his  enlistment  as  a  soldier  have  inspired 
this  brilliant  author  to  write  a  number  of  new  poems,  notably 
'Timor  Mortis'  which  is  striking  in  conception  and  treatment 
and  charged   with  an   unusual  dei)th  and  intensity  of  feeling. 


^i'-  'T.  D.  Logan  267 

The  Over-Song  of  Niagara 

VV7HY  stand  ye,  nurslings  of  Earth,  before  my  gates, 

VV    Mouthing  aloud   my  glory  and   my   thrall? 
Are  ye  alone  the  playthings  of  the  fates, 
And  only  ye  o'ershadowed  with  a  pall? 
Turn   from  this  spectacle  of  strength  unbound— 

This  fearful  force  that  spends  itself  in  folly! 
Turn  ye  and  hark  above  the  organ-sound 
My  Over-song  of  Melancholy! 
"/  rush  and  roar 
Along  my  shore, — 

/  go  sii'eeping,  thundering  on; 
Yet  my  days,  O  man, 
Are  but  as  a  span. 

And  soon  shall  my  strength  be  gone! 
My  times  are  measured 
In  whose  hand  I  am  treasured, 

(Think  not  of  thy  little  day!) 
Though  I  rush  and  roar 
Along  my  shore, 

I  am  passitig  azvay — 
Passing  azvav! 

"The  sun  and  the  moon 
They  too  shall  soon 

Sink  back  into  eternal  IVight: 
All  earth  and  the  sea 
Shall  cease  to  be, 

And  the  stars  shall  melt  in  their  flight! 
Their  times  arc  measured 
In  whose  hand  they  are  treasured. 

(Think  not  of  thy  little  day!) 
The  celestial  throng 
Chant  my  Orer-song, — 
'Passing  atcax, — 
Passing  azvay!'  " 
Then  stand  not,  nurslings  of  Earth,  before  mv  gates. 

Mouthing  aloud  my  glory  and  my  thrall:' 
Not  ye  alone  are  playthings  of  the  fates, 


268 


Dr.  J.  D.  Logan 


Nor  only  ye  o'ershadowed  with  a  pall ! 
But  hark  to  my  song" 
As  I  sweep  along, 

Thundering  my  organ-tone — 
"O  vain  is  all  Life, 
0  vain  is  all  Strife, 

And  fruitless  the  Years  that  have  flozvn! 
As  the  Worst;  so  the  Best — 
All  haste  to  their  rest 

In  the  void  of  the  Primal  Unknown." 

Cartier:  Dauntless  Discoverer 

(Sailed  Westward,  1524,  1525, 1541) 

HAIL,  Master  Mariner  of  Sainte  Malo! 
Whose  name  hath  been  a  star  for  centuries, 
Why  ventured  thou  thrice  o'er  tempestuous  seas, 
In  ships  antique  and  frail?  Didst  thou  then  know 
The  greater  issue  of  thy  bold  emprise 
And  trust  an  unseen  providential  hand 
To  guide  thee  westward  to  an  opulent  land 
Wherein  a  mighty  nation  would  arise? 

O  bold  Sea-Rover,  instrument  of  God, 

Whose  occult  purposes  were  wrought  through  thee, 

A  grateful  people  hail  thy  name,  and  laud 

Thy  dauntless  spirit  of  discovery ! 

Thy  glory  sure,  rest,  Rover,  rest,  while  blow 

The  winds  in  requiem  round  Sainte  Malo! 

Champlain :  First  Canadian 

(Founded  Quebec,  1608) 

WISE  Colonist  who  in  this  storied  place. 
With  wisdom  prescient  of  thy  pregnant  deed. 
Cast  forth  the  sparsate  grains  of  fruitful  seed, 
Whence  sprang  a  virile  and  a  patriot  race: 
Thy  aims  were  not  to  found  a  merchantry 
Enthralled  by  vulgar  gain;  but  thy  just  mind, 
Inspired  with  love  of  thy  benighted  kind. 
Raised  here  the  throne  of  Christian  empery. 


Dr.  J.  D.  Logan 

Intrepid,  constant,  nobly  pure  and  strong, 

First  citizen  of  Canada's  domain, 

Behold,  this  ancient  city  is  thy  fane 

And  thy  compatriots  raise  thy  name  in  song. 

Look  downward  from  thy  lofty  resting-place 

And  mark  the  regnancy  of  thy  just  ways. 

Laval:  Noble  Educator 

(Founded  Quebec  Semi)iary,  1663) 

LAV.AL,  High  Priest  of  Knowledge,  who  first  scanned 
The  years  to  come,  and  saw  the  pow'rs  that  lay 
Within  the  docile  hearts  thy  truth  should  sway, — 
Whose  work  is  puissant  still  upon  this  land, — 
Thou  wast  the  Spirit's  patient  paragon 
In  those  far,  pristine,  mercenary  days 
When  thou  alone  wast  master  of  the  ways 
That  lead  into  the  vale  of  Avalon. 

Lo,  now  a  people  learned  in  all  the  arts 
Greet  thee  to-day  across  the  distant  vale 
Of  Truth,  where  dwells  obscure  the  Holy  Grail. 
And  tho  they  commerce  oft  upon  the  marts 
Of  specious  gain,  they  look  beyond  the  mist 
To  thee,   their   first   great   Educationist. 

Brock:  Valiant  Leader 

(Fell  at  Queenston  Heights,  1812) 

0\  ALIANT  leader  of  the  little  band 
That,  fearless,  forward  rushed  to  victory, 
Tho  far  outnumbered  by  the  enemy, 
And,  daring  death,  saved  our  Canadian  land, — 
What  honours  can  we  pay  the  noble  name 
Of  one  who  held  as  naught  th'  invaders'  art 
Of  war, — whose  glory  hath  become  a  part 
For  evermore  of  our  Canadian  fame  ? 

Lo,  on  the  looming  crown  of  that  ascent 

Where  thy  life  ceased,  a  loyal  host  hath  reared 

To  thee — whose  patriot  heart  was  pure,  nor  feared, — 


269 


270  Dr.  J.  D.  Logan 

A  high  commemorative  monument ! 

Still  is  thy  memory  green  who  fell  to  save, 

vStill,  Brock,  art  thou  the  bravest  of  our  brave ! 

Winifred  Waters 

WINIFRED  WATERS,  when  I  look  on  you  now,— 
With  the  sweet  peace  of  God  on  your  beautiful  brow 
As  you  lie  lily-white  in  your  lone  lethal  bed, — 
I  will  conjure  your  spirit,  sit  here  at  your  head. 
And  talk  to  you,  dear,  whom  I  lost,  and  recall 
Our  vows  when  I  swooned  to  the  ineffable  thrall 
Of  your  eyes  that  once  rivalled  the  jewels  of  Night, 
Of  your  kisses  that  dropped  more  delicious  and  light 
Than  the  rose-leaves  that  perfume  the  drowsy  June  air. 
Of  the  glorious  gold  in  your  hyacinth  hair. 
And  the  treasures  of  love  that  we  pledged  for  the  days 
When  our  souls  should  discover  Earth's  winsomest  ways. 

0  Winifred  Waters,  mellifluous  name 

That  enamored  my  soul  as  rare  music,  I  came 
To  the  wells  of  Love's  wine,  and  I  drank  there  elate. 
Then  I  joyed  daily  forth,  till  an  untoward  fate 
Snapped  the  cords  that  enchained  us,  heart  unto  heart. 
So  I  passed  to  the  world.     You,  cloistered  apart 
In  the  lonely-celled  nunnery  of  unchanging  grief, 
Awaited  Time's  advent  with  his  mortal  relief, 
Till  you  drooped  like  a  sun-famished  lily,  and  died. 
But  I  am  come,  dear,  at  length,  and  here  by  your  side 

1  commune  with  your  spirit  while  I  look  on  you  now, 
With  the  sweet  peace  of  God  on  your  beautiful  brow. 
Lo,  I  kiss  your  cold  hands ;  I  warm  them  with  tears 
And  possess  you  again  after  long  widowed  years. 

O  Winifred  Waters,  I  re-pledge  you  above 
Your  casket,  and  find  there  the  Treasury  of  Love. 

Wind  o'  the  Sea 

O  WANDERING  minstrel,  wild  Wind  o'  the  Sea, 
That  knowest  the  innermost  being  of  me 
Who  love  thy  rude  sport  with  the  measureless  brine. 
And  whose  spirit  is  wayward  and  vagrant  as  thine, — 


Dr.  J.  D.  Logan  271 

O  wandering  minstrel,  sad  Wind  o'  the  Sea, 
That  learnest  world-secrets  by  swift  errantry, 
Blow  hither  to  me  o'er  the  wide  Eastern  main 
And  tell  me  what  meaneth  the  poignant  refrain 
Of  surges  that  moan  like  sad  souls  in  their  sleep, 
And  those  shuddering  shadows  that  darken  the  deep. 

Blow,  wild  Wind  o'  the  Sea ! 

Blow,  sad  Wind  o'  the   Sea! 
And  speed  with  thy  lay  to  thy  lorn  devotee. 

Then  the  Sea-wind  sang  forth :  'I  blow  from  afar 

The  ocean's  accompaniment   to  the   war 

Of  the  beast  and  the  god  that  dwell  in  thy  soul. 

Forever  at  strife  for  the  gain  of  the  whole 

Of  thy  manhood's  estate,  of  thy  love  and  desire. 

So  thou  sink  to  the  one ;  to  the  other  aspire. 

And  the  deep,  dark,  shuddering  shadows,'  he  shrilled, 

'Are  the  planes  of  thy  life  which  Destiny  willed — 

The  devilish  depths  of  thy  sensual  hours 

When  the  beast  in  thy  soul  thralls  thy  senses  and  pow'rs — 

The  shadowy  heights  of  thy  consecrate  days 

When  the  god  in  thy  soul  is  lord  of  thy  ways.' 

Thus  ruthlessly  sang  the  wild  W^ind  o'  the  Sea 
That  learnest  soul-secrets  by  swift  errantry. 

Ah,  wild  Wind  o'  the  Sea! 

Ah,  sad  Wind  o'  the  Sea! 
That  revealest  the  innermost  being  of  me. 

Timor  Mortis 

'For  he  to-day  that  sheds  his  blood   with   me 

Shall    be    my    brother 

And   gentlemen   in   England   now   abed 
Shall   think  themselves   accursed  they   were  not  here.' 
King  Henry  V — .A.ct  IV,  sc.   3    (King's  speech  prior  to  the  battle 
of  Agincoiirt). 

I  WEND  my  ways  with  one  dire  dread 
Now  daily  in  my  heart : 
The  fear  of  death  obses.-^es  me — 
The  fear  that   I   may  pass 
Too  soon  for  my  desiring  eyes  to  see 


272  Dr.  J.  D.  Logan 

The  English  camps,  and  for  my  feet  to  tread 

The   English   green-sward  grass ; 

That  I,  who've  heard  my  God's,  my  King's,  my  Country's 
claims 

And,  though  belated,  have  at  length  begun 

A  larger  life  of  holier  aims 

Than  w^as  my  w^ont,  may  suddenly  depart 

This  shattered  world  to  utter  oblivion, 

Ere  I,  in  Christian  chivalry, 

With  brave,  devoted  comrades  dauntlessly  have  stood  face  to 
the  foe 

On  Flanders'  fatal  fields  and  struck  a  single  blow 

For  man's  dear  brotherhood  and  world-wide  liberty. 

Or  ere,  upon  the  blood-steeped  slopes 

Of  France,  I've  met — mine  eyes  afront,  my  soul  quite  un- 
dismayed— 

The  Hunnish  cannons'  fearful  fusilade 

Or  done  my  share  to  still  the  Hunnish  hopes, 

And  thus  to  leave  secure,  ev'n  if  by   my  poor  martyrdom, 

A  happier  heritage  to  generations  yet  to  come. 

Dear  God,  oh,  privilege  me  the  fullest  bloom 

Of  vital-strength,  that  I  may  pay  the  price 

For  my  too  selfish,  easeful  days;  spare  me  to  live 

That  I,  if  it  should  be  Thy  will,  may  sacrifice 

The  meagre  all  I  now  can  give. 

And,  falling,  lie  obscurely  laid  within  a  nameless  tomb. 

Perchance,  round  where  mine  unknown  grave  may  be, 

Unshaded  by  Canadian  maples,  unsung  by  winds  from  my 
Acadian  sea, 

I  shall  in  spirit-state  revisit  foreign  slope  or  plain 

On  which  I  fell,  and  there  aloft  descry 

The  Flag  of  England  still  flaunting  victory  to  the  sky, 

'Neath  where  the  hellish  holocaust  once  swept  amain, 

And  I  shall  know  I  died  not  in  dishonour  nor  in  vain, 

But  that  I  may,  at  home,  in  peace,  untried,  yield  up  my  breath — 

This  is  my  direst  dread,  my  fear,  of  thee,  O  Death ! 


Ut^tMt^^   «      ■  •  -  « 


Annie  Campbell  Huestis 


That  .liiiiic  L'amphcll  Mueslis  is  a  true  poet  uiust  he  evi- 
dcut  to  any  diseeniiug  reader  of  her  contributions  to  this 
book,  thoui^h  they  are  but  a  few  blossoms  plucked  from  her 

already  fertile  muse I'rom  childhood  she  has  icrit- 

ten  -i-erses  of  high  lyrical  quality,  many  of  zchich  have  been 
li'elcomed  to  the  pages  of  such  publications  as  'Harper's  Maga- 
zine' and  the  'Xez^^'  York  Independent.'  ....  Her 
p()Ci)is  ei'ince  a  lovely  nieditatiz'eness.  a  spirit  sensitife  to 
beauty  and  to  sorroiv,  consolation,  spiritual  gladness.  They 
have  spontaneity,  originality,  distinction:  no'i'elty  in  theme  and 

turn:  clearly  springing  from  a  peculiar  inspiration 

Invariably,  Miss  Huestis  employs  simple,  natural  diction,  ucicr 
straining  for  preciosity,  and  never  failing  to  express  perfectly 
her  inea)iing  and  designed  incantation.  Often  she  pierces  the 
sense  of  'our  mortal  strife  7iv7//  the  immortal  woe  of  life,' 
yet  ahcays  she  lifts  the  listening  soul,  as  does  the  song  spar- 
row's plai)iti:'e  refrain,  to  delight  not  unaware  of  immin- 
ent  tears. —  \\.   W.   Thomson. 

12731 


Annie  ('anii)l)ell  Huestis 


AXXIE  CAMPBELL  HUESTIS  began  very  early  in  life 
to  write  verse  acceptable  to  magazine  editors,  for  she  was 
bnt  a  >ma]l  child,  under  her  teens,  when  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 
sent  her  first  poem  to  the  Nezc  York  Independent.  It  was 
accepted  and  paid  for. 

She  is  the  youngest  of  a  family  uf  six.  and  was  Ijitrn  in 
Halifax,  Xova  Scotia.  Her  father  is  ]\Ir.  Martin  FJent  Huestis, 
of  L'nited  Empire  Loyalist  descent,  and  her  mother.  X'ictoire 
Ayrton  Johnson,  a  sister  of  the  late  George  Johnson,  Dominion 
Statistician.  Mrs.  Huestis  is  of  English  and  Irish  extraction, 
— one  of  whose  ancestors  was  a  Doctor  of  ]\Iusic,  so  distin- 
guished that  he  was  buried  in  the  cloisters  of  Westminster 
Abbey,  and  another,  a  Privy  Councillor  of  the  L'nited  King'dom. 

After  attendance  at  public  and  high  schools,  ]\Iiss  Huestis 
continued  her  studies  at  the  Sacred  Heart  Convent.  Since 
then  she  has  travelled  abroad  twice,  the  second  time  as  a 
writer  of  descriptive  articles  for  newspapers.  She  has  con- 
tributed frequently  to  magazines.  A  recent  number  of  Har- 
per's Weekly  contained  'On  the  Stair."  and  Harper's  Magazine, 
of  Jul}-,  1916.  has  a  story  by  this  author,  entitled  'Flannigan.' 

The  Little  White  Sun 

THE   >ky   had  a  gray,  gray   face. 
The  touch  of  the  mist  was  chill. 
The  earth  was  an  eerie  place. 
For  the  wind  moaned  over  the  hill : 
r.ut  the  brown  earth  lavighed,  and  the  sky  turned  blue, 
When   the   little   white   sun   came   ])ee]jing   through. 
The  wet  leaves  saw  it  and  smiled, 
'i'he  glad  birds  gave  it  a  song — 
A  cry   from   a   heart,   glee-wild. 
And  the  echoes  laug'h  it  along : 
And  the  wind  and  I  went  whistling,  too, 
When   the   little   wdiite   sun   came   ])eeping   through. 
So,  welcome  the  chill  of  rain 
And  the  world  in  its  dreary  guise — 
To  have  it  over  again, 
That  moment   of   sw^eet   sur])rise, 

\\'hen  the  brown  earth  laughs,  and  the  sky  turns  blue. 
As  the  little  white  sun  comes  peejMug  through. 


Annie  Campbell  Huestis  '^^''^ 


The  Will-o'-the-Wisp 

THE  Will-o'-the-Wisp  is  out  on  the  marsh, 
And   all   alone   he  goes ; 
There's  not  a  sight  of  his  glimmering  light 

From  break  of  day  to  close; 
But  all  night  long,  from  dusk  till  dawn, 
He  drifts  where  the  night  wind  blows. 

The  Will-o'-the-Wisp.  he  has  no  roof, 

Yet  he  seeks  not  hut  nor  hall; 
He  will  not  wait  for  a  friendly  foot, 

But  starts  if  a  shadow  fall ; 
And  never  a  voice  can  make  him  turn, 

But   the   far  off  winds  that  call. 

The  twilight  covers  the  dreaming  hills, 

The  evening  dews  begin ; 
There's  none  to  care  that  he  wanders  there, 

There's  none  to  call  him  in ; 
And  all  the  night,  with  his  lonely  light. 

He  goes  where  the  mists  have  been. 

From  firelit  window  and  open  doors. 

The  roads  have  golden  bars ; 
And  round  and  round  the  world  is  bound 

By  a  girdle  of  radiant  stars ; 
But  I  watch  to-night  for  a  fleeting  light 

That  a  moment  makes  or  mars. 

Flit,  flit,   with  the  hurrying  hours, 

In  shadow  and  mist  and  dew ; 
Will-o'-the-Wisp,  O  Will-o'-the-Wisp, 

I  would  I  could  follow  you, 
With  your  elfin  light  for  a  lantern  bright 

The  bogs  and  the  marshes  through! 

O  Will-o'-the-Wisp,  in  silver  dusk 

Who'd  wish  for  golden  dawn? 
In  purple  night,  with  stars  a-light. 

Who'd  dream  of  noontide  gone? 
Who  would  not  stray  by  the  glimmering  way 

Your  wandering  feet  are  drawn? 


276  Annie  Campbell  Huestis 


The  dawn  comes  over  the  silent  hills, 

And  calls  to  the  winds  of  morn ; 
The  stars  grow  pale,  and  the  sun  cries,  'Hail!' 

To  the  shadowy  fields  forlorn; 
And  good-bye,  good-bye,  to  the  Will-o'-the-Wisp, 

Who  dies  wiien  the  day  is  born ! 

Aldaran 

ALDARAN,  who  loved  to  sing, 
Here  lieth  dead. 
All  the  glory  of  the  Spring, 
All   its   birds   and   blossoming, 

Near  his  still  bed, 
Cannot  waken  him  again, 
Cannot  lure  to  hill  and  plain 
Aldaran,  the  singer. 
Who  is  dead. 

Homeward  through  the  early   dusk 

Idly  he   would  stray, 
Through  the  woodland  dim  and  still 
Harp  in  hand  and  heart  athrill. 

Singing  on  his  way, — 
Singing  neath  a  dark'ning  sky 
To  the  birds  their  lullaby ; 
To  the  owls  a  plaintive  note. 
Mournful,  from  his  happy  throat; 
To  the  brooks,  in  lighter  tone. 
Merry  music  like  their  own; 
To  the  dreaming  fields  a  tune 
Like  the  wind  of  afternoon 
When  it  drifts  through  sunlit  spaces 
Cooling  weary  flower  faces; 
To  the  wee  folk  in  their  beds 
Gentle  croons  for  sleepy  heads ; 
And  to  every  timid  thing, 
Hushed  and  hidden,  he  would  sing, 
Till  it  crept  in  wonder  sweet, 
Fear  forgetting,  to  his  feet. 

It  was  so  he  charmed  them,  singing, 


Annie  Campbell  Huestis  277 


Bird  and  beast  and  man, 
Yet  no  voice  can  ever  waken 
Sleeping-  Aldaran. 

Aldaran,  who  loved  to  sing-, 

Here  lieth   still. 
Let  the  bird  upon  the  bough, 
Near  where  he  is  sleeping  now, 

Call    if    it   will. 
Never  voice  of  bird  or  man 
Shall  awaken  Aldaran. 
Hushed  he  lies,  whose  happy  throat 
Woke  the  wood  with  silver  note, 
Stirred  the  slumbering  hills,  and  then 
Charmed  them  all  to  sleep  again. 
Hushed  he  lies,  as  if  content 
With  the  silent  way  he  went, 
But  the  winds  come  seeking  him, 

Through  the  forest  to  and  fro, 
In  the  twilight  strange  and  dim, 

Calling,  calling  as  they  go. 
'Must   you    lie   in    silence   ever, 
Gentle  Singer?'  cries  the  river. 
And  the  birds  from  hill  to  hill. 
Seem   to   wait   and   listen   still. 
'Aldaran,  O  Aldaran, 

Haste  thee  back,  the  day  is  sped!' 
So  the  wind  and  twilight  calleth. 

Wild  and  wistful,  near  his  bed, — 
Aldaran,   the    Singer, 

Who  is  dead !' 
It   was   in   the  purple   dusk 

Of  a  golden  day, 
Throug'h  the  woodland  that  he  loved. 

Home  he  made  his  way. 
Here  he  lay  awhile  to  dream 

In  the  forest  dim. 
And  the  bank  beside  the  stream 

Was  a  couch  for  him ; 
Kind  above  him  bent  the  willow, 
15 


278  Annie  Campbell  Huestis 


And  the  low  moss  was  his  pillow, 

And  his  wall  the  thicket  grim. 
One  by  one,  the  quiet  sky 
Lit  its  candles  pure  and  high 
Till  their  light  shone  swift  and  far, 
Like  a  smile,  from  star  to  star, 
And  the  wind  was  like  a  prayer 
Chanted  in  the  silence  there. 

It  was  so,  while  he  lay  sleeping, 
Hushed,  a  weary  man, 

Death  came  through  the  darkness  creeping 
Unto  Aldaran. 

Like  an  enemy  it  came. 

Through  the  shade  it  crept, 
With  a   footstep  swift  and  drear, 
In  the  shadows  drawing  near, 

Softly,  while  he  slept. 
Laid  a  hand  upon  his  eyes. 

That  they  might  not  see  the  Spring, 
Laid  a  seal  upon  his  lips. 

That  they  might  not  sing. 

Wept  the  wind,   with  voice  of   fear, 
'Wake  thee,  danger  lurketh  near!' 
Cried  the  flying  owl,  'O  follow!' 
Hurrying  through  the  silent  hollow. 
And  its  shadow  weird  and  grey 
Seemed  to  beckon  him  away. 
So  they  pled  with  him,  the  while 
In  the  woodland  that  he  knew, 
Aldaran,   with   fearless  smile. 
Lay  asleep  mid  flowers  and  dew. 
What  to  watch  or  dread  had  he. 
Who  had  known  no  enemy? 
Yet,   from  shadow  into  light, 
Flashed  a  dagger  fierce  and  bright. 
Unto   shadow   drew   again, 
False  and  shamed  with  crimson  stain. 
And  the  grasses  trembling  near 


Annie  Campbell  Huestis  279 

Felt  a  step  that  fled  in  fear. 
Never  troubled  word  he  spake, 

Never  cry  of  grief  or  pain, 
But  in  wonder  strove  to  wake, 

Stirred,  and  sighed,  and  slept  again. 
Flowers  in  that  piteous  place 
Bent  to  screen  his  paling  face, 
And  the  dark,  with  touch  that  blest. 
Hid  the  wound  upon  his  breast. 

In  the  friendly  wood  that  knew  him, 
Sweet  with  fern  and  flower. 

So  it  was  that  Death  came  to  him, 
In  his  trusting  hour. 

Aldaran  who  loved  to  sing 

Here   lieth  low, 
Not  again  his  heart  shall  spring, 
At  the  time  of  blossoming. — 

Ah,  who  can  know? 
Still  at  dusk  and  break  of  day 
Some  can  hear  him  on  his  way, — 
Aldaran,  the  vanished  one. 
Walking   hidden   in   the   sun, 
Moving  mistlike  by  the  streams 
When  the  early  twilight  dreams, 
Speeding  on  his  quiet  way, 
Never  seen,  by  night  or  day, 
But  in  pity  drawing  near 
To  the  help  of  those  who  fear. 
To  the  beds  of  those  who  die. 
Singing  their   last   lullaby, 
Singing  still,  when  they  are  far 
Where  the  mist  and  silence  are, 
Singing  softly  still,  that  they 
May  not  fear  the  unknown  way. 

So  to  those  whose  day  is  sped, 
In  the  hour  lone  and  dread, 

Cometh  Aldaran,  the  Singer, 
Who  is  dead. 


280  Annie  Campbell  Huestis 

On  the  Stair 

AS  I  went  lonely  up  the  stair 
Ah  me,  the  ghost  that  I  saw  there! 
So  bright  and  near  it  seemed  to  be, 
It  laid  a  hand  with  tender  touch 
On  my  sad  eyes  that  wept  too  much, 
And  bent  a  wistful  face  to  me, — 
It  was  the  friend  whose  heart  I  brake 
With  many  a  grief  for  my  false  sake. 

The  hand  that  sought  to  dry  my  tears 
Had  dried  her  own  in  earlier  years — 
The  patient  tears  I  made  her  shed. 
The  face  that  bent  to  comfort  me 
From  the  dark  hall  where  none  could  see 
Had  smiled  on  me  as  she  lay  dead. 
It  was  the  friend  I  did  not  spare 
Who  met  me  on  the  lonely  stair. 

If  I  could  live  those  years  again 
And  break  no  trust,  and  give  no  pain, 
And  nobly  grieve  to  see  her  die. 
We  could  forget  that  she  was  dead. 
And  all  the  years  so  strangely  fled. 
And  love  this  meeting,  she  and  I ; 
But  I  was  false  as  friend  could  be 
And  she  comes  back  to  comfort  me. 


Alan  Sullivan 


Tin-  charm  of  his  lucid  and  )iiclodious  verse  has  attracted 
wide  and  deep  attention  in  Canada  and  the  United  States. 
A  few  of  the  titles  are  these:  'The  Lover,'  'Respice,'  'To  Sleep,' 
'Suppliant;  'When  in  the  Speechless  Night,'  'The  Call,'  and 
'Came  Those  who  Saw  and  Loved  Her'  zchich  is  perhaps  the 
poet's  greatest  achiei-cnioit.     In  this  poem  he  has  reached  a 

magnificent  Ir^'cl The  apotheosis  of  honest  toil  is 

a  golden  thread  running  through  much  of  Alan  Sullivan's 
work.  It  is  the  dominant  feature  of  his  remarkable  poem. 
'The  City.'  .  ...  It  is  the  same  attitude  iozcards  brawn 
a)id  si)ie:<'  which  Tcr  ti)id  in  his  prose  sketches.  'The  Pdots 
of  the  Night;  and  'The  Essence  of  Man.'  .  ...  He 
is  always  paying  homage  to  the  native  and  naked  dignity  of 

man While  he  is  not  in  the  usual  soise  a  didactic 

author,  he  e.vhibits  i)i  his  prose  work  and  occasionally  in  his 
poetry,  some  characteristics  of  the  social  and  moral  philoso- 
pher.— J.  E.  Wethi-rkll.  B.A..  in  'MacLcan's  Mag-azinc' 

[281] 


282  Alan  Sullivan 


A  LAX     SL'LLIX'AN    has    long-    had    recognition    in    the 
United  States,  through  his  poems,  sliort  stories,  and  com- 
prehensive articles  on  various  themes,  which  have  freciuently 
ai)peared   in    Harper's   Magazine,   the   Atlantic   Monthly,   and 
other  leading  American  periodicals ;  hut   Canadians  are  only 
beginning,  it  seems  to  me,  to  realize  his  literary  genius  and 
fine  workmanship.     Recently  I  have  read  with  critical  interest 
most  of  his  output,  and  am  deeply  impressed  by  his  keenness 
of  perception,  his  intellectual  grasp,  his  power  of   sustained 
analysis,  and  by  his  native  sense  of  the  fitness  of  thing's.    He  is 
not  only  a  distinctive  poet,  he  is  a  writer  of  excellent  fiction. 
Edward  Alan   Sullivan  was  born  in   St.  George's  Rectory, 
Montreal,  November  29th,  1868.     He  is  the  eldest  son  of  the 
late  Bishop  of  Algoma,  the  Right  Reverend  Edward  Sullivan, 
who  was  of  Irish  birth,  and  Frances  Mary  Renaud,  a  native 
of   Scotland.     In   1869,  his   father  became  Rector  of  Trinity 
Church,   Chicago,   and   the   family  was   resident  there   during 
the  terrible  conflagration  which   devastated  that  city  in   1871. 
In  his  fifteenth  year,  he  was  sent  to  Loretto.  a  famous  school 
for  boys,  in  Musselburgh,  Scotland,  where  he  remained  until 
his  course  of  studies  was  completed.    On  his  return  to  Canada, 
he  attended  the  School  of  Practical  Science.  Toronto,  and  then 
engaged  in  railway  exploration  work  in  the  West,  and  later 
in  mining.     He  was  assistant  engineer  in  the  Clergtie  enter- 
prises at  Sault  Ste.  Marie,  for  a  year  and  a  half,  before  the 
organization    of   the    Consolidated    Lake    Superior    Company. 
Subsequently  he  spent  several  years  as  a  mining  engineer  in 
the  Lake  of  the  Woods  district,  during  the  period  of  its  gold 
exploitation. 

In  December,  1900,  Air.  Sullivan  married  Bessie  Salisbury, 
daughter  of  Mr.  George  H.  Hees,  of  Toronto,  and  their  happy 
and  beautiful  home  in  Wychwood  Park,  Toronto,  is  now  graced 
with  four  bright  children,  two  boys  and  two  girls. 

In  1903,  he  became  Mechanical  Superintendent  of  Gutta 
Percha  &  Rubber,  Limited,  and  held  the  position  for  ten  years. 
He  is  now  Secretary-Treasurer  of  the  Canadian  Electrical 
Association,  and  a  Consulting  Engineer. 

The  following  are  his  most  important  book  publications: 
/  Bcliez'e  That,  1912;  The  Passiii<^  of  Oitl-I-Biit  and  Other 
Tales,   1913;  and  Blantyre:  Alien,   1914. 


Alan  Sullivan  283 


Suppliant 

GRANT  me,  dear  Lord,  the  alchemy  of  toil, 
Clean  days  of  labour,  dreamless  nights  of  rest, 
And  that  which  shall  my  weariness  assoil, 
The  sanctuary  of  one  beloved  breast: 

Laughter  of  children,  hope  and  thankful  tears, 
Knowledge  to  yield,  with  valour  to  defend, 

A  faith  immutable,  and  stedfast  years 

That  move  un vexed  to  their  mysterious  end. 

Prospice 

THE  ancient  and  the  lovely  land 
Is  sown  with  death;  across  the  plain 
Ungarnered  now  the  orchards  stand, 

The  Maxim  nestles  in  the  grain, 
The  shrapnel  spreads  a  stinging  flail 

Where  pallid  nuns  the  cloister  trod. 
The  airship  spills  her  leaden  hail ; 
But— after  all  the  battles— God. 

Athwart  the  vineyard's  ordered  banks, 

Silent  the  red  rent  forms  recline, 
And  from  their  stark  and  speechless  ranks 

There  flows  a  richer,  ruddier  wine ; 
While  down  the  lane  and  through  the  wall 

The  victors  writhe  upon  the  sod. 
Nor  heed  the  onward  bugle  call ; 

But — after  all  the  bugles — God, 

By  night  the  blazing  cities  flare 

Like  mushroom  torches  in  the  sky ; 
The  rocking  ramparts  tremble  ere 

The  sullen  cannon  boom  reply, 
And  shattered  is  the  temple  spire, 

The  vestment  trampled  on  the  clod. 
And  every  altar  black  with  fire ; 

But — after  all  the  altars — God. 

And  all  the  prizes  we  have  won 
Are  buried  in  a  deadly  dust ; 


•284  Alau  Sullivan 


The  things  we  set  our  hearts  upon 
Beneath  the  stricken  earth  are  thrust ; 

Ag'ain  the  Savage  greets  the  sun, 
Again  his  feet,  with  fury  shod, 

Across  a  world  in  anguish  run; 
But — after  all  the  anguish — God. 

The  grim  campaign,  the  gun,  the  sword, 

The  quick  volcano  from  the  sea, 
The  honour  that  reveres  the  word, 

The  sacrifice,  the  agony — 
These  be  our  heritage  and  pride. 

Till  the  last  despot  kiss  the  rod. 
And,  with  man's  freedom  purified. 

We  mark — behind  our  triumph — God. 

The  Kite 

UPON  the  liquid  tide  of  air 
It  swayed  beside  a  dappled  cloud : 
It  seemed  athwart  the  sun  to  fare 
Full  of  strong  flight,  as  though  endowed 
With  vibrant  life.     Buoyed  in  the  sky 
It  swam,  and  hardly  might  the  eye 
Traverse  the  fields  of  ambient  light 
To  scan  its  heaven  aspiring  height. 
And,  like  a  spider's  web,  there  slipped 
A  pulsing  earthward  thread,  that  dipped 
In  tenuous  line,  that  throbbed  and  spoke, 
Down  through  the  sunlight  and  the  smoke, 
Down  to  a  small  and  blackened  brood 
Of  puny  city  waifs  that  stood. 
And — lost  to  hunger,  want  or  time — 
Stared,  rigid,  through  the  city's  grime 
At  the  far  envoy  they  had  given 
As  hostage  to  the  winds  of  heaven. 

Thus  may  the  Soul  to  heights  elysian 
Send  argosies  of  dream  and  vision : 
Send  far  flung  messengers  that  rise 
Strong  pinioned,  cleaving  to  the  skies. 
To  float  amid  the  poised  spheres. 


Alan  Sullivan  285 


Beyond  the  tumult  of  the  years, 
Till, — down  the   rare  and   rainbow  line 
That  earthward  trails  from  fields  divine — 
Shall  pulse  the  throb  of  mystic  wings, 
And  faint,  sweet,  rapturous  whisperings 
Of  incommunicable  things. 

Came  Those  Who  Saw  and  Loved  Her 

CAME  those  who  saw  and  loved  her. 
She  was  so   fair  to   see ! 
No  whit  their  homage  moved  her, 

So  proud  she  was,  so  free; 
But,   ah,   her  soul   was   turning 
With  strange  and  mystic  yearning, 
With   some   divine   discerning. 
Beyond  them  all — to  me! 

As  light  to  lids  that  quiver 

Throughout  a  night  forlorn, 
She  came — a  royal  giver — 

My  temple  to  adorn ; 
And  my  soul  rose  to  meet  her. 
To  welcome  her.  to  greet  her. 
To  name,  proclaim,  her  sweeter 

And  dearer  than  the  morn : 

For  her  most  rare  devising 

Was  mixed  no  common  clay, 
Nor  earthly  form,  disguising 

Its  frailty  for  a  day ; 
But  sun  and  shadow  blended, 
And  fire  and   love   descended 
In  one  creation  splendid 

Nor  less  superb  than  they. 

You — of  the   finer  moulding. 

You — of  the  clearer  light. 
Whose  spirit  life,  unfolding. 

Illumed  my  spirit's  night, 
Stoop  not  to  end  my  dreaming, 


286  Alan  Sullivan 


To  stain  the  vision  gleaming, 
Or  mar   that  glory,   seeming 
Too  high  for  touch  or  sight. 

Dear  as  the  viewless  portal 
Of  dream  embroidered  sleep, 

Lift  me  to  dreams  immortal, 
Till,    purified,   I   leap 

To  hear  the  distant  thunder 

Of  dark  veils  rent  asunder, 

And  lose  myself  in  wonder 
At  mysteries  so  deep. 

Till,  past  the  sombre  meadows, 

Tearless  and  unafraid. 
Linked  even  in  the  shadows, 

Our  deathless  souls  have  strayed; 
And  you,  my  soul's  defender 
O  valiant  one  and  tender. 
Cry  out  to  God's  own  splendour, 

'Behold  the  man  I  made!' 

Brebeuf  and  Lalemant 

CAME  Jean  Brebeuf  from  Rennes,  in  Normandy, 
To  preach  the  written  word  in  Sainte  Marie — 
The  Ajax  of  the  Jesuit  enterprise: 
Huge,  dominant  and  bold — augustly  wise. 
The  zealot's  flame  deep  in  the  hot  brown  eyes 
That  glowed   with   strange   and   holy   whisperings. 
And  searched  the  stars,  and  caught  angelic  wings 
Beating  through  visions  of  mysterious  things. 
Once,  in  the  sky,  a  cross  and  martyr's  crown 
Hung  o'er  the  squalor  of  the  Huron  town. 
And  spectres,  armed  with  javelin  and  sword, 
Foreshadowed  the  dread  army  of  the  Lord ; 
But,  onward  through  the  forest,  to  his  fate 
Marched   the   great   priest,   unawed   by    Huron   hate 
In  every  scourge  he  glimpsed  the  sacred  Tree 
And  the  dear  Master  of  his  embassy. 


Alan  Sullivan  287 


Twas  in  St.  Louis,  where  the  Hurons  lay, 
Screened  from  the  blue  sweep  of  the  Georgian  Bay, 
That  the   frail  brother  Lalemant,  and  Brebeuf, 
Built  a  strange  sanctuary,  whose  trembling  wall 
Was  birchen  bark,  on  whose  long,  curving  roof 
Lay  tawny  skins.    A  spirit  seemed  to  call 
In  supplication  through  the  holy  place 
For  some  strong  mercy  on  the  untamed  race 
That,  naked,  sat  in  this  thrice  wondrous  room; 
And,  peering  through  the  incense-burdened  gloom, 
Stared  at  the  altar,  where  the  black-robes  bent 
O'er  the  bright  vessels  of  their  sacrament. 

Till,  on  the  grim  and  memorable  day, 

When,  to  the  Host,  they  bade  their  converts  pray, 

There  flashed  a  gasping  runner  through  the  wood: 

'The  Iroquois!     The  Iroquois!'  he  cried. 

As  fire  that  stings  the  forest  into  blood 

And  drives  red  gales  of  ruin  far  and  wide, 

So  frenzied  fear  ran  riot,  in  a  flood 

That  surged  convulsive.     But  the  great  priest  stood 

Like  a  strong  tower,  when  fretted  billows  race 

Tumultuously  about  its  massy  base: 

'Courage,  my  children,  through  the  flame  I  see 

The  dear  white  Christ,  whose  long  sought  sons  are  ye.' 

Then  suddenly  from  out  the  wood  there  rose 

The  shouting  of  innumerable  foes, 

And  waves  of  painted  warriors  from  the  glade 

Swept  yelping,  through  the  tottering  palisade. 

Were  devils  ere  so  murderous  as  men 

In  whose  brown  breasts  those  devils  breathed  again, 

When  agony  the  shuddering  sky  assailed, 

When  age  and  youth  in  choking  anguish  wailed? 

Torn  from  the  breast,  the  child  was  cleft  in  twain, 

The  mother  shrieked,  then  fell  among  the  slain; 

Age  had  no  power  to  swerve  the  dripping  knife, 

Youth  gained  but  torture  as  the  end  of  life, 

The  wounded  perished  in  the  bursting  flame 

That  left  St.  Louis  but  a  woeful  name. 

But  'midst  the  dead  and  dying  moved  the  priest, 


288  Alan  Sullivan 

Closing-  dead  eyes,  speeding  the  soul  released; 
'Absolvo   te' — to  trembling  lips  the  word 
Descended  from  the  Hurons'  new  found  Lord. 
And,  ere  the  night  took  pity  on  the  dead, 
Brebeuf  and  Lalemant  in  chains  were  led; 
And  one,  the  giant  of  Normandy,  was  bound 
To  a  great  stake;  when  staring  boldly   round 
With  ardent  gaze,  he  saw  the  convert  throng 
Captive.     'Have  courag^e!     It  will  not  be  long; 
Torture  is  but  salvation's  earthly  price. 
To-day  we  meet  the  Christ  in  Paradise.' 

I 
O  heart  of  iron,  O  strange  supernal  zeal, 

That  braves  the  fire,  the  torture  and  the  steel! 
O  torn  and  shrinking  flesh  that  yet  can  find 
The  crown  of  thorns  mysteriously  entwined! 
O  sightless  orbs  that  still  their  Lord  discern, 
Howe'er  the  coals  their  blackened  sockets  burn. 

Thus  sped  the  Jesuit's  triumphant  soul. 

And  Lalemant,  ere  the  rising  of  the  sun, 

Achieved  through  torment  his  far-shining  goal. 

And  all  the  Huron  missions,  one  by  one, 

Were  driven  by  the  Iroquois  like  spray 

That  strong  winds  snatch  and  swiftly  whirl  away. 

Sleep,  Lalemant !  Brebeuf,  a  long  surcease ! 

Still  moves  your  martyr's  spirit  through  the  glade ; 

Still  mourns  the  northern   forest,   when  the  peace 

And  benediction  of  the  twilight  shade 

Awakens   in  the  dark  memorial  pines 

A  velvet-footed,  cedar-scented  breeze, 

That  whispers  where  the  green  and  knotted  vines 

Enmesh  the  cloistered  colonnade  of  trees. 

[There  exists  no  more  fascinating  record  of  courage  and  endurance 
than  that  bequeathed  to  Canada  by  the  Jesuit  Fathers.  It  excites  both 
our  pride  and  our  wonder.  Foremost  in  the  van  of  these  great  pioneers 
came  Brebeuf  and  Lalemant  the  first  Canadian  martyrs.  Who  can 
read  without  emotion  of  their  dauntless  lives,  their  marvellous  and 
perilous  journeys,  and  the  terrible  death  that  overtook  them  in  1649, 
when  captured  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Huron  by  the  merciless  Iro- 
quois?— Author's   Note.] 


Alma  Frances  McCollum 


'Where  Si)igs  the  JVhippoorzvill'  is  for  its  beauty  a  strong 
little  etehiiig. 

'The  Angel's  Kiss'  is  distinctly  high  class,  and  I  think  Miss 
McCollum  excels  in  this  key. 

'The  Silent  Singer'  is  perfect  a)id  a  beautiful  tribute. 

'Loz'c'  is  grand  and  Miss  McCollum  has  the  true  conception. 

'Little  Nellie's  Pa  is  so  good  that  Janics  U'liitconib  Riley 
might  hair  been  proud  to  sign  it. 

On  the  li'liole  my  iudg)nent  tells  )ne  the  I'olumc  is  a  valu- 
able addition  to  our  Canadian  literature.  The  only  faults  are 
mi)ior  ones,  and  consistent  with  the  "writer's  youth;  a}id  ivJu^ 
zvould  liafe  it  othen^'ise.'  But  there  is  no  ))ia:K'kishness — easy 
to  see  "ichat  a  lovely  character  is  our  jeune  fille. — Dr.  W.  TI. 
Drl".mmond,  ill  a  letter  to  the  Editor,  in  1902. 

Iler  poetical  compositions,  conspicuous  for  their  tender  deli- 
cacy of  sentiment  and  graceful  literary  form,  constitute  a 
permajient  and  valued  addition  to  )uitive  Canadian  literature. 
— F.  R.  YoKOMi:.  editor,  in  the  Peterborong-h  'Examiner.' 

[289] 


290  Alma  Frances  McCollum 

ALMA  KRA.XCES  AIcCOLLL'.M  was  l)oi-n  in  a  rural  vil- 
lage, near  the  town  of  Chatham,  Ontario,  on  the  7th 
of  December.  1879.  She  was  the  youngest  of  a  family  of 
six.  While  she  was  still  a  child,  her  father,  Edward  Lee 
McCollum,  died,  and  the  family  shortly  afterwards  moved 
to  Peterborough,  Ontario.  In  this  city  the  mother  and  three 
daughters  continued  to  live  until  the  autumn  of  1905,  when 
ihey  sold  their  home  and  purchased  one  on  Delaware  Avenue, 
Toronto. 

}^Iiss  Alma  had  been  frail  in  health  for  several  years  before 
her  short  residence  in  Toronto.  In  the  spring-  of  1900  she 
S])ent  several  weeks  in  a  sanitarium  at  Clifton  Springs,  where 
she  was  very  ill :  and  it  was  while  her  life  was  almost  de- 
spaired of  there,  that  she  experienced  the  strange  visitation 
expressed  in  that  beautiful  sonnet,  'The  x-\ngel  of  the  Sombre 
Cowl." 

Probably  the  chief  object  in  moving  to  Toronto  was  to  en- 
able Miss  Alma  to  take  lectures  in  English  Literature  at 
L'niversity  College ;  but  after  a  few  weeks'  attendance,  her 
health  so  failed  that  she  had  to  discontinue  her  studies. 

Her  physician  believed  she  had  incipient  appendicitis  and 
persuaded  her  to  undergo  an  operation.  This  proved  fatal,  and 
she  passed  away  on  the  21st  of  March.  1906. 

Miss  McCollum  inherited  her  poetical  talent  from  her  father, 
who.  like  the  elder  Lampman,  wrote  good  verse.  She  beg'^n 
to  make  rhymes  in  early  life,  and  while  still  in  her  teens  had 
written  most  of  the  poems  which  appeared  in  Flozver  Legends 
and  otJier  Poems,  in  1902.  The  ]iretty  cover  design  was 
sketched  by  herself.  Besides  these  accomplishments  she  sang 
sweetly,  accompanying  herself  on  a  mandolin,  and  had  a  rare 
gift  of  mimicry  and  recitation.  To  see  and  hear  her  recite  her 
own  ])oems  was  a  pleasure  never  to  be  forgotten  :  her  lovely, 
expressive  face,  her  graceful  movements,  her  patrician  voice 
and  manners,  made  U])  an  indescribable  cliarm  of  personality. 

Miss  McCollum's  parents  were  both  born  and  brought  up 
in  Ireland:  and  she  was  a  niece  of  the  late  Rev.  J.  H. 
McCollum.  of  Toronto.  Her  mother  and  two  sisters  are  now 
residing  on  the  Pacific  Coast,  in  the  State  of  \\'ashington. 


Alma  Frances  McColhni)  291 


THE  poems  selected  and  included  in  the  original  copy  were 
these :  'Where  Sings  the  Whippoorwill,'  'The  Angel's  Kiss,' 
'The  Silent  Singer,'  'Love,'  The  Angel  of  the  Sombre  Cowl' 
and  'Little  Nellie's  Pa.'  But  as  the  consent  of  the  executrix 
of  Miss  McCollum's  estate  could  not  be  obtained  the  following 
poems  have  been  substituted.  Their  inclusion  is  due  to  the 
courtesy  of  The  Canadian  Magazine  and  The  Globe,  Toronto. 

Miss  McCollum,  like  Isabella  Valancy  Crawford,  spent  many 
happy  hours  in  the  beautiful  environment  of  the  Kawartha 
Lakes.  She  had  a  pretty  summer  cottage,  "Halcyon,"  on  the 
north  shore  of  Smith  township.  It  was  located  about  a  half- 
mile  from  Burleigh  Falls  where  the  picturesque  view  of  lake 
and  islands,  with  a  background  of  thick  woods,  inspired  such 
poems  as  'Forest  Sounds'  and  'A  Song  of  the  Forest.' 


Forest  Sounds 

WHO,  in  the  pines,  may  hear  low  voices  raised 
To  chant  in  suppliant  tone? 
They  who,  in  Sorrow's  tranquil  eyes,  have  gazed, 
O'ercome,  endured  alone. 

The  joyous  whispering  of  lesser  trees. 

Who  can  interpret  this  ? 
Awakened  souls  whose  inmost  sanctities 

Know  Love's  revealing  kiss. 

And  lowly  vines,  the  tender  clinging  things 

That  dwell  amid  the  sod  ? 
For  pillowed  ear,  a  carillon  ne'er  rings, 

Unless  at  peace  with  God. 


292  Alma  Frances  McCollum 


A  Song  of  the  Forest 

The  Legend  of  Love-Sick  Lake 

WHEN  you  wander  alone  through  the  forest 
And  hst  to  the  murmuring  song, 
If  your  heart  be  attuned  to  the  music, 

The  words  \\\\\  come  floating  along. 
I  have  listened  so  oft  to  the  singing 

That  when  it  is  plaintive  and  low 
I  can  hear  through  the  melody's  sobbing 

A  love  tale  of  long,  long  ago. 
'Nenemoosha!     Omemee!    Omemee!' 

The  waterfalls  purl  as  they  flow ; 
And  the  echo  sighs  softly,  'Omemee! 

The  sweetheart,  the  maiden  of  woe.' 
Like  a  willow  wand  supple  and  slender 

Her  movements  were  motions  of  grace, 
And  her  eyes  as  the  stars  of  the  morning; 

And  dusky  as  twilight  her  face, 
Overshadowed  by  long  silken  tresses, 

Which  shone  with  a  luminous  light,  ■ 
Like  darkness,  when  daylight  appeareth 

Dispersing  the  shadows  of  night. 

Now  the  West  Wind  is  dreamily  humming 

The  love-lays  the  dusky  Braves  cooed. 
And  the  brooklet  is  mocking  the  laughter 

That  silenced  each  lover  who  wooed; 
But  the  melody  varies  and  deepens, 

A  tenderer  message  is  sighed. 
And  the  brooklet  grows  fainter  and  fainter 

To  whisper  the  words  which  replied. 
Oh !  this  lover  was  fair  as  the  morning, 

His  eyes  as  the  blue  of  the  lake. 
And  the  hair,  like  its  brink  sun-illumined. 

And  true  was  the  promise  he  spake: 


Alma  Frances  McCoUum  293 


'Nenemoosha !    Omemee  !     I  Jeloved  ! 

The  moon  is  a  thin,  silver  thread ; 
After,  strand  over  strand,  winds  it  roundly, 

Omeniee  her  lover  will  wed.' 
But  the  Waterfalls  sullenly  gurgle 

How,  speedily,  far  from  her  sight, 
With  no  farewell,  her  lover  was  banished. 

Ere  moonbeams  illumined  the  night ; 
How  the  Braves  and  the  Squaws  in  derision 

Then  pointed  the  finger  of  scorn 
Harshly  laughing,  'Omemee,  forsaken, 

The  loveless,  the  maiden  forlorn !' 

Now  the  waters  roar  loudly  their  anger, 

Till  echoing  echoes  reply ; 
And  the  wind  wails  its  anguish  of  spirit, 

Keyed  high  to  a  shrill  minor  cry ; 
Then  it  hushes  and  sobs  how  Omemee 

Was  dazed  with  their  gibes  and  her  grief. 
And  afar  through  the  forest  went  roaming 

To  find  for  her  sorrow  relief ; 
How  the  trees  drooped  their  boughs  to  caress  her, 

The  brambles  and  thorns  bent  aside, 
And  the  blossoms  clung  fast  to  her  tresses 

To  garland  her  fair  like  a  bride ; 
How  the  Moon  rolled  its  last  silver  girdle 

And  over  the  maiden  shone  clear. 
Till  she  startled  and  shivered  enraptured, 

And  knew  that  her  lover  was  near. 
From  the  lakelet  she  heard  his  voice  calling, 

And  following  as  in  a  dream, 
Where  the  margin  hung  high  o'er  the  water. 

She  gazed  on  the  moon's  sparkling  gleam. 
For  a  moment  she  lingered  and  hovered. 

Then  gliding  through  quivering  light. 
Where  the  Wavelets  called  softly,  'Omemee,' 

She  floated  and  vanished  from  sight. 


294  Alma  Frances  McCollum 


Now  the  forest  is  throbbing  with  music, 

A  harmony  wondrously  blent, 
An  ecstatic  and  thrilling  emotion, 

Commingled  with  blissful  content ; 
From  the  Brooklet  a  ripple  of  laughter, 

The  Waterfall's  note  like  the  dove, 
And  the  Wind  in  a  clear  tone  of  triumph. 

With  echoes  uniting,  sing  love. 
And  though  years  have  rolled  decade  on  decade 

The  Forest  remembers  the  song. 
And  the  wraith  of  Omemee  appeareth, 

And  flits  o'er  the  water  along: 
An  elusive  ethereal  vision. 

An  eerie  and  mystical  sprite : 
Like  the  vaporous  spray  of  a  fountain 

It  glides  through  the  silvery  light. 
And  because  of  this  visitant  ghostly. 

Which  follows  the  moon's  brilliant  wake. 
And  the  Waterfall's  echoing  sighing, 

This  region  is  called  'Love-sick  Lake.' 

When  you  wander  alone  through  the  forest 

And  list  to  the  murmuring  song. 
If  your  heart  be  attuned  to  the  music. 

The  words  will  come  floating  along. 
I  have  listened  so  oft  to  the  singing 

That  when  it  is  plaintive  and  low 
I  can  hear  through  the  melodies  sobbing 

This  love  tale  of  long,  long  ago. 


Peter  Mc Arthur 


No  one  Ti'/zc  tiir)is  over  the  pages  of  'The  Prodigal  and  Other 
Poems.'  or  who  reads  his  other  printed  zvork,  eon  fail  to 
recognize  that  Mr.   Mc.lrthur  is  the  possessor  of  a  genuine 

lyrical  voice Perhaps  the  first  thing  that  strikes 

the  reader  of  his  poetry — (/;/(/  his  prose  as  zvell,  for  the  matter 
of  that — is  that  it  possesses  that  rare  enough  quality, — aest. 
Mr.  McArthur  is  no  mere  (esthete,  no  lackadaisical  dilettante, 
but  is  alive  to  his  finger  tips;  and  all  his  :<'ritings  fairly  tingle 
ivith  life.  The  next  thing  one  perceives  is  that  a  strong  hu- 
man feeing  runs  tlirough  his  zvork.  Mr.  McArthur  is  above 
all  thi)igs  else  a  hunnin  beijig.  and  a  lover  of  all  things  human. 
But  he  loves  nature,  loo,  and  ])ianages  to  get  zrry  close  to  her: 
tee  can  fairly  s)nell  the  good  brou'n  earth  in  every  out-of-doors 
poem  of  his.  Naturalness  is  another  of  his  qualities.  He  is  ever 
himself:  affectation  of  all  kinds  is  anathema  to  him.  ffis  work 
is  marked  also  by  a  lambent,  playful  Jiumour,  -which,  how- 
ever,   can    become  sardonic   enough   -when    occasio)i    requires. 

R.   II.    1  I  AT  II  AWAY. 

[295] 


296  Peter  Mc-Aithiir 


PHTl-.R  McARTl  IL'R  ]ia>  recently  becdine  one  of  the  most 
prominent  and  successful  of  our  Canadian  literary  men. 
lli>  '>yndicate'  articles  ijertainiiiii-  to  farm  life,  which  appeared 
in  the  Toronto  Clobc  and  other  journals,  and  which  were 
retUtlent  of  humour  and  wisdom,  attracted  wide  attention; 
and  when  the  best  of  them  were  published  in  a  substantial 
book,  under  the  alluring-  title,  ///  Pastures  Green,  the  enduring 
fame  of  the  author  was  assured.  Indeed  he  has  done  more 
than  any  other  writer  of  his  day  and  generation,  to  attract 
attention  back  to  the  farm  and  to  ix)pularize  its  various  pur- 
suits. That  wh<ilesome  poem,  "The  Stone,'  was  found  in  this 
notable  book,  and  is  reprinted  here  by  kind  permission. 

His  parents  were  the  late  Peter  and  Catherine  ( ]\IcLennan) 
McArthur,  natives  of  Scotland.  He  was  born  at  Ekfrid,  in 
the  county  of  ^Middlesex,  Ontario.  ]\Iarch  10th,  1866.  After 
he  had  attended  the  local  public  school  and  worked  on  his 
father's  farm,  until  twenty  years  of  age,  his  higher  educa- 
tion was  received  at  the  Strathroy  Collegiate  Institute,  and 
at  University  College.  Toronto.  For  a  short  period,  he  taught 
in  a  public  school.  In  1889,  he  entered  Journalism  as  a  mem- 
ber of  the  stafif  of  the  Toronto  Mail,  and  later  contributed  to 
Grip.  Detroit  Free  Press.  Saturday  Xis^ht.  Xew  York  Suu, 
Puck.  Judi^e.  Life.  Harper's  Monthly.  Atlantic  Monthly,  Cen- 
tury, etc.  In  1890,  he  moved  to  New  York.  In  March,  1895, 
he  became  assistant  editor  of  Truth,  and  in  the  following 
August,  editor-in-chief  and  art  manag'er.  A  month  later,  he 
was  married  to  IMabel  C.  Waters,  of  Niagara  Falls.  Ontario. 

During  the  years.  1902-4,  Mr.  McArthur  lived  in  London, 
England,  and  contributed  to  Punch  and  to  the  Rei'ieiv  of  Re- 
views. He  then  returned  to  New  York,  and  for  four  years 
was  a  member  of  the  firm  of  'McArthur  and  Ryder.'  commer- 
cial i)ublishers.  In  1908.  he  returned  to  the  old  home  farm, 
and  has  remained  ever  since. 

llis  chief  book  publications  are:  To  Be  Taken  With  Salt: 
an  Essay  on  Teaching  one's  Grandmother  to  Suck  Eggs,  1903  ; 
The  Prodigal  and  Other  Poems.  1907;  ///  Pastures  Green, 
1915  :  and  The  Red  Cow  and  Her  Friends,  1916. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  McArthur  have  four  sons  and  one  daughter. 
One  of  the  sons  is  a  corporal  in  the  56th  Overseas  Battery. 


Peter  McArthur  297 

Corn-Planting 

THE  earth  is  awake  and  the  birds  have  come, 
There  is  Hfe  in  the  beat  of  the  breeze, 
And  the  basswood  tops  are  ahve  with  the  hum 

And  the  flash  of  the  hungry  bees ; 
The  frogs  in  the  swale  in  concert  croak, 

And  the  glow  of  the  spring  is  here, 
When  the  bursting  leaves  on  the  rough  old  oak 
Are  as  big  as  a  red  squirrel's  ear. 

From  the  ridge-pole  dry  the  corn  we  pluck. 

Ears  ripe  and  yellow  and  sound, 
That  were  saved  apart  with  the  red  for  luck. 

The  best  that  the  buskers  found ; 
We  will  shell  them  now,  for  the  Indian  folk 

Say,  'Plant  your  corn  without  fear 
When  the  bursting  leaves  on  the  rough  old  oak 

Are  as  big  as  a  red  squirrel's  ear.' 

No  crow  will  pull  and  no  frost  will  blight, 

Nor  grub  cut  the  tender  sprout, 
No  rust  will  burn  and  no  leaves  turn  white, 

But  the  stalks  will  be  tall  and  stout ; 
And  never  a  weed  will  have  power  to  choke. 

Or  blasting  wind  to  sear. 
The  corn  that  we  plant  when  the  leaves  of  the  oak 

Are  as  big  as  a  red  squirrel's  ear. 

To  the  Birds 

HOW  dare  you  sing  such  cheerful  notes? 
You  show  a  woful  lack  of  taste ; 
How  dare  you  pour  from  happy  throats 
Such  merry  song's  with  raptured  haste. 
While  all  our  poets  wail  and  weep, 
And  readers  sob  themselves  to  sleep? 

'Tis  clear  to  me.  you've  never  read 

The  turgid  tomes  that  Ibsen  writes. 
Or  mourned  with  Tolstoi  virtue  dead. 

Nor  over   Howells  pored  o'   nights ; 


298  Peter  McArtliur 


For  you  are  glad  with  all  your  power; 
For  shame!     Go  study  Schopenhauer. 

You  never  sing  save  when  you  feel 

The  ecstasy  of  thoughtless  joy; 
All  silent  through  the  boughs  you  steal 

When  storms  or  fears  or  pains  annoy; 
With  bards  'tis  quite  a  different  thing, 
The  more  they  ache  the  more  they  sing. 

All  happiness  they  sadly  shirk, 

And  from  all  pleasure  hold  aloof, 
And  are  so  tearful  when  they  work 

They  write  on  paper  waterproof. 
And  on  each  page  express  a  yearn 
To  fill  a  cinerary  urn. 

Go,  little  birds,  it  gives  me  pain 

To  hear  your  happy  melodies! 
My  plaudits  you  can  never  gain 

With  old  and  worn-out  tunes  like  these ; 
More  up-to-date  your  songs  must  be 
Ere  you  can  merit  praise  from  me. 

An  Indian  Wind  Song 

THE  wolf  of  the  winter  wind  is  swift, 
And  hearts  are  still  and  cheeks  are  pale. 
When  we  hear  his  howl  in  the  ghostly  drift 

As  he  rushes  past  on  a  phantom  trail ; 
And  all  the  night  we  huddle  and  fear. 

For  we  know  that  his  path  is  the  path  of  Death, 

And  the  flames  burn  low,  when  his  steps  are  near, 

And  the  dim  hut  reeks  with  his  grave-cold  breath. 

The  fawn  of  the  wind  of  the  spring  is  shy, 

Her  light  feet  rustle  the  sere,  white  grass. 
The  trees  are  roused  as  she  races  by, 

In  the  pattering  rain  we  hear  her  pass ; 
And  the  bow  unstrung  we  cast  aside, 

While  we  winnow  the  golden,  hoarded  maize. 
And  the  earth  awakes  with  a  thrill  of  pride 

To  deck  her  beauty  for  festal  days. 


Peter  McAitlmr ^ 

The  hawk  of  the  summer  wind  is  proud, 

She  circles  high  at  the  throne  of  the  sun; 
When  the  storm  is  fierce  her  scream  is  loud, 

And  the  scorching*  glance  of  her  eye  we  shun  ; 
And  often  times,  when  the  sun  is  bright, 

A  silence  falls  on  the  choirs  of  song, 
And  the  partridge  shrinks  in  a  wild  affright. 

Where  a  searching  shadow  swings  along. 

The  hound  of  the  autumn  wind  is  slow, 

He  loves  to  bask  in  the  heat  and  sleep. 
When  the  sun  through  the  drowsy  haze  bends  low, 

And  frosts  from  the  hills  through  the  starlight  creep; 
But  oftentimes  he  starts  in  his  dreams, 

When  the  howl  of  the  winter  wolf  draws  nigh, 
Then  lazily  rolls  in  the  gold-warm  beams. 

While  the  flocking  birds  to  the  south  drift  by. 

Sugar  Weather 

WHEN   snow-balls  on   the   horses'   hoofs 
And  the  wind  from  the  south  blows  warm. 
When  the  cattle  stand  where  the  sunbeams  beat 

And  the  noon  has  a  dreamy  charm, 
When  icicles  crash  from  the  dripping  eaves 

And  the  furrows  peep  black  through  the  snow, 
Then  I  hurry  away  to  the  sugar  bush, 
For  the  sap  will  run,  I  know. 

With  auger  and  axe  and  spile  and  trough 

To  each  tree  a  visit  I  pay, 
And  every  boy  in  the  country-side 

Is  eager  to  help  to-day. 
We  roll  the  backlogs  into  their  place, 

And  the  kettles  between  them  swing. 
Then  gather  the  wood  for  the  roaring  fire 

And  the  sap  in  pailfuls  bring. 

A  fig  for  your  arches  and  modern  ways, 

A  fig  for  your  sheet-iron  pan, 
I  like  a  smoky  old  kettle  best 

And  1  stick  to  the  good  old  plan ; 
16 


300  Peter  McArthur 


We're  going  to  make  sugar  and  taffy  to-night 

On  the  swing  pole  under  the  tree, 
And  the  girls  and  the  boys  for  miles  around 

Are  all  sworn  friends  to  me. 

The  hens  are  cackling  again  in  the  barn, 

And  the  cattle  beginning  to  bawl, 
And  neighbours,  who  long  have  been  acting  cool, 

Now  make  a  forgiving  call; 
For  there's  no  love-feast  like  a  taffy-pull. 

With  its  hearty  and  sticky  fun, 
And  I  know  the  whole  world  is  at  peace  with  me, 

For  the  sap  has  commenced  to  run. 

The  End  of  the  Drought 

LAST  night  we  marked  the  twinkling  stars, 
This  morn  no  dew  revived  the  grass. 
And  oft  across  the  parching  fields 

We  see  the  dusty  eddies  pass ; 
The  eager  hawk  forgets  to  swing 

And  scream  across  the  burning  sky. 
And  from  the  oak's  slow-dying  crest 
Sends  forth  a  strange  and  plaintive  cry. 

The  geese  on  unaccustomed  wings 

Flap  wildly  in  ungainly  flight. 
The   peacock's   fierce   defiant   scream 

Scatters  the  fowls  in  wild  affright. 
The  crows  are  barking  in  the  woods, 

The  maple  leaves  their  silver  show. 
The  cattle  sniff  the  coming  storm. 

Then  toss  their  heads   and  softly   low. 

And  now  along  the  hazy  west 

The   swiftly  building   clouds   uprear; 
High  overhead  the  winds  are  loud. 

The  thunder  rolls  and  grumbles  near; 
The  housewife  trims  the  leaky  eaves. 

The  farmer  frets  of  lodging  grain, 
Till  all  the  world,  rejoicing,  drinks 

The  long-denied,  long-prayed-for  rain. 


Peter  Mc Arthur  30 1 


The  Stone 

A  MAX !     A  man !     There  is  a  man  loose  in  Canada, 
A  man  of  heroic  mould,  a  'throwback'  of  earlier  ages, 
Vigorous,  public-spirited,  not  afraid  of  work ! 
A  doer  of  deeds,  not  a  dreamer  and  babbler ; 
A  man,  simple,  direct,  unaffected. 
Such  a  one  as  Walt  Whitman  would  have  gloried  in, 
And  made  immortal  in  rugged  man-poetry — 
Vast  polyphloesboean  verses  such  as  erstwhile  he  bellowed 
Through  roaring  storm  winds  to  the  bull-mouthed  Atlantic. 

And  yesterday  the  man  passed  among  us  unnoted! 
Did  his  deed  and  zvent  his  way  zvithout  boasting, 
Leaving  his  act  to  speak,  himself  silent! 

And  I,  beholding  the  marvel,  stood  for  a  space  astonied, 

Then  threw  up  my  hat  and  chortled, 

And  whooped  in  dithyrambic  exultation. 

Hark  to  my  tale! 

On  the  sixteenth  sideroad  of  the  township  of  Ekfrid, 

Just  south  of  the  second  concession  line,  some  rods  from  the 
corner. 

There  was  a  stone,  a  stone  in  the  road,  a  stumbling-block ; 

A  jagged  tooth  of  granite  dropped  from  the  jaw  of  a  gfacier 

In  an  earlier  age  when  the  summers  were  colder ; 

A  rock  that  horses  tripped  on.  wheels  bumped  on,  and  sleigh- 
runners  scrunched  on, 

And  no  man  in  all  the  land  had  the  gumption  to  dig  it  out. 

Pathmaster  after  pathmaster,  full  of  his  pride  of  office, 

Rode  by  with  haughty  brow,  and  regarded  it  not, 

Seeing  only  the  weeds  in  the  field  of  the  amateur  farmer, 

And  scrawling  minatory  letters  ordering  them  cut. 

But  leaving  the  stone. 

Oft  in  my  hot  youth  I,  riding  in  a  lumber  waggon. 

By  that  lurking  stone  was  catapulted  skyward. 

And  picked  myself  up  raging  and  vowing  to  dig  it  out — 

But  dug  it  not.     I  didn't  have  a  spade, 

Or,  if  I  had  a  spade,  I  had  a  lame  back — always  an  excuse. 

And  the  stone  stayed. 

As  passed  the  years — good  years,  bad  years. 


302  Peter  McAi-thur 

Years  that  were  wet  or  dry,  lean  years  and  fat  years, 
Roaring  election  years  (mouthing  reforms)  ;  in  short,  all  years 
That  oldest  inhabitants  keep  in  stock — there  grew  a  tradition 
About  the  stone.    Men,  it  was  said,  had  tried  to  move  it, 
But  it  was  a  stubborn  boulder,  deep  sunk  in  the  earth. 
And  could  only  be  moved  by  dynamite,  at  vast  cost  to  the 

council ; 
But  every  councillor  was  a  watch  dog  of  the  treasury. 
And  the  stone  stayed. 

Since  the  memory  of  man  runneth  the  stone  was  there. 
It  had  stubbed  the  toe  of  the  Algonquin  brave,  and  haply 
Had  tripped  the  ferocious,  marauding  Iroquois. 
It  had  jolted  the  slow,  wobbling  ox-cart  of  the  pioneer; 
Jolted  the  lumber  waggons,  democrats,  buggies,  sulkies ; 
Jolted  the  pungs,  crotches,  stoneboats,  bobsleighs,  cutters  ; 
Upset  loads  of  bolts,  staves,  cordwood,  loads  of  logs  and  hay ; 
Jolted  threshing  machines,  traction  engines,  automobiles. 
Milk  waggons,  with  cans  of  whey,  envied  of  querulous  swine ; 
It  had  shattered  the  dreams  of  farmers,  figuring  on  crops; 
Of  drovers  planning  sharp  deals ; 
Of  peddlers,  agents,  doctors,  preachers ; 
It  had  jolted  lovers  into  closer  embraces,  to  their  bashful 

delight ; 
But  mostly  it  had  shaken  men  into  sinful  tempers — 
A  wicked  stone,  a  disturbing  stone,  a  stumbling-block — 
A  stone  in  the  middle  of  the  road — 
Insolent  as  a  bank,  obstructive  as  a  merger ! 

Year  after  year  the  road  flowed  around  it, 
Now  on  the  right  side,  now  on  the  left ; 
But  always  on  dark  nights  flowing  straight  over  it. 
Jolting  the  belated  traveller  into  a  passion  black  as  midnight, 
Making  his  rocking  vocabulary  slop  over 
With  all  the  shorter  and  uglier  words. 
Boys  grew  to  manhood  and  men  grew  to  dotage. 
And  year  after  year  they  did  statute-labour 
By  cutting  the  thistles  and  golden-rod,  milkweeds  and  bur- 
docks. 
But  left  the  stone  untouched. 


Peter  McArthiir  303 


There  is  a  merry  tale  that  I  heard  in  my  childhood, 

Standing  between  my  father's  knees,  before  the  open  fireplace, 

Watching  the  sparks  make  soldiers  on  the  blazing  backlog. 

While  the  shadows  danced  on  the  low-beamed  ceiling. 

A  pretty  tale,  such  as  children  love,  and  it  comes  to  me  now ; 

Comes  with  the  sharp,  crisp  smell  of  wood  smoke. 

The  crackle  of  flaming  cordwood  on  the  dockers. 

The  dancing  shadows  and  the  hand  on  my  tousled  head — 

A  clear  memory,  a  dear  memory,  and  ever  the  stone 

As  it  lay  in  my  path  on  the  roadway  brought  back  the  story — 

The  loving  voice,  and,  at  the  close,  the  laughter. 

"Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  king,  a  mighty  ruler. 
Deep  in  the  lore  of  human  hearts,  wise  as  a  serpent. 
Who  placed  a  stone  in  the  road,  in  the  midst  of  his  kingdom. 
On  the  way  to  his  palace,  where  all  men  must  pass  it. 
Straightway  the  people  turned  aside,  turning  to  right  and  to 

left  of  it. 
Statesmen,   scholars,  courtiers,   noblemen,  merchants, 
Beggars,   labourers,    farmers,    soldiers,   generals,   men   of   all 

classes, 
Passed  the  stone,  and  none  tried  to  move  it — 
To  clear  the  path  of  the  travelling  multitude. 
But  one  day  came  a  man,  a  kindly  poor  man, 
Who  thought  it  a  shame  that  the  stone  should  be  there, 
A  stumbling-block  to  the  nation.    Bowing  his  back 
He  put  his  shoulder  to  it,  and  behold,  a  marvel! 
The  stone  was  but  a  shell,  hollow  as  a  bowl! 
A  child  might  have  moved  it. 

And  in  the  hollow  was  a  purse  of  gold,  and  with  it  a  writing: 
'Let  him  who  hath  the  public  spirit  to  move  the  stone 
Keep  the  purse  and  buy  a  courtly  robe, 

And  come  to  the  palace  to  serve  the  king  as  prime  minister.' 
So  the  kindly  poor  man  who  had  public  spirit 
Became  the  chief  ruler  of  all  the  nation. 
When  the  news  was  told  to  them,  all  men  rushed  to  the  high- 
ways 
And  moved  away  the  stones,  but  found  no  purse  of  gold ; 
But  they  cleared  the  roads  of  stones,  and  the  'Good  Roads 
Movement' 


304  Peter  McArtliur 


Went  through  without  cost  because  the  king  was  wise 
And  well  understood  our  weak  human  nature." 

Ever  when  passing  the  stone  I  remembered  this  story 

And  smiled,  touched  by  memories  of  childhood, 

But  knew  there  was  no  purse  under  it ;  there  might  be  an 

angle-worm, 
But  I  was  not  going  fishing — and  the  stone  stayed. 

Now  mark  the  sequel,  the  conclusion  of  the  matter ! 

Yesterday  a  man  went  by — whether  a  neighbour  or  stranger. 

No  rnan  can  tell  me,  though  I  have  questioned  widely, 

Questioned  eagerly,  longing  to  do  him  honour, 

To  chant  his  name  in  song,  or  cunningly  engrave  it 

In  monumental  brass,  with  daedal  phantasies — 

To  make  it  a  landmark,  a  beacon  to  all  future  ages. 

This  good  man,   earnest,  public-spirited. 

Not  fearing  work,  scorning  tradition, 

Doing  his  duty  as  he  saw  it,  not  waiting  an  order. 

Dug  out  the  stone  and  made  it  a  matter  of  laughter, 

For  it  was  no  boulder,  deep-rooted,  needing  dynamite. 

But  just  a  little  stone,  about  the  size  of  a  milk  pail. 

A  child  might  have  moved  it,  and  yet  it  had  bumped  us 

For  three  generations  because  we  lacked  public  spirit. 

I  blush  with  shame  as  I  pass  the  stone  now  lying 

In  the  roadside  ditch  where  the  good  man  rolled  it. 

And  left  it  where  all  men  may  see  it — a  symbol,  a  portent. 

Tremble,  ye  Oppressors  !    Quake,  ye  Financial  Pirates ! 

Your  day  is  at  hand,  for  there  is  a  man  loose  in  Canada ! 

A  man  to  break  through  your  illegal  labyrinths, 

A  Theseus  to  cope  with  your  corporate  Minotaurs, 

A  Hercules  to  clean  out  your  Augean  stables  of  grafters, 

A  man  who  moves  stones  from  the  path  of  his  fellows ! 

And  makes  smooth  the  Way  of  the  Worker ! 

And  such  a  man  may  move  you !     Tremble,  I  say ! 


Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall 


'The  Drift  of  Pinions'  is  exquisitely  lyrical,  ivitli  a  flazdess 

rhythm   and   melody This  poet  pays  no  heed  to 

the  headlines  of  io-day,  nor  to  the  rumours  of  to-morrow,  but 
goes  her  zvay  in  the  zvorld  of  iris-buds  and  golden  fern,  hear- 
ing and  seeing  only  the  things  that  are  most  excellent.  She 
possesses  that  historic  imagination  to  zchich  the  zvorld  of  yes- 
terday  is  even   more  real  than   the  thronging  events  of  the 

present It  is  impossible  in  comment  or  quotation 

to  give  an  idea  of  the  subtle  beauty  of  execution,  the  ideal 
spirituality  of  conception,  zi'hich  make  such  poems  as  'The 
Lamp  of  Poor  Souls'  and  'A  Mother  in  Egypt'  poetic  achieze- 

ments   of   the   rarest   kind To    those   for  zchom 

poetry  is  a  dzvelling-place  for  all  szvect  sounds  and  harmonies, 
these  poems  zcill  come  as  nezi'  and  magic  melodies,  sung  by 
one  of  the  authentic  fellozvship.  The  singer's  gifts  are  splen- 
dour and  tenderness  of  colour,  szveetness  of  silvery  phrase, 
and  a  true  poet's  unzvavering  belief  in  'the  subtle  thing  called 
spirit.' — Jean   Graham,  in  Toronto  'Saturday  Night.' 

[;>05] 


306 


Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall 


AlU  )L"i'  ihe  beiiinnint;-  of  this  ceniury,  tlie  attention  of 
many  readers  was  attracted  strongly  to  the  remarkable 
character  of  the  contributions  of  a  seventeen-year-old  ijirl 
to  the  ■'Wnmg-  People's  Corner"  of  the  .1/(7/7  and  Empire. 
It  was  evident  that  a  genius  of  a  rare  order  had  appeared  in 
Canadian   literature. 

The  signature  was  'Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall,'  and  on  en- 
quiry it  was  found  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  English 
parent-^ — Mr.  Arthur  C.  l^ickthall.  an  electrical  engineer,  and 
lielen  Mallard — who  had  emigrated  to  Toronto  in  1890, 
when  their  child  was  about  seven  years  (jf  age.  It  was  also 
learned  that  she  had  been  educated  in  the  Bishop  Strachan 
School  on  College  street. 

As  ]\Iiss  Marjorie  Lowrey  Christie  Pickthall  was  born  in 
London,  England,  the  14th  of  September,  1883,  she  achieved 
fame  earlier  in  life  than  most  poets.  For  a  decade  her  poems 
and  short  stories  have  appeared  in  leading  periodicals  of  Eng- 
land, the  United  States,  and  Canada ;  and  in  the  autumn  of 
1913,  the  Uniz'ersity  Mai^a.:;iiic,  Montreal,  and  John  Lane,  the 
Bodley  Head,  issued  a  volume  of  her  collected  verse,  entitled 
.-i  Drift  of  Pinions. 

For  once  the  reviewers  and  critics  g'enerally  were  of  one 
opinion,  that  the  work  was  the  product  of  genius  undefiled 
and  radiant,  dwelling  in  the  realm  of  pure  beauty  and  singing 
with  perfect  naturalness  its  divine  message. 

In  1913,  Miss  Pickthall  was  assistant  librarian  in  \'ictoria 
College,  but  the  close  confinement  not  agreeing  with  her  health, 
she  resigned  and  went  to  England  to  visit  relatives.  She  was 
there  when  the  Great  War  broke  out,  antl  at  once  became 
interested  in  grey  knitting  and  other  matters  pertaining  to  the 
soldiers. 

In  1915,  Little  Hearts,  her  first  novel,  was  ptiblished  and 
was  very  favorably  received  by  the  best  critics. 

'ihe  well-known  English  writer.  Marmaduke  Pickthall.  is 
a  half-brother  of  her  father. 

Miss  Pickthall  has  also  a  talent  for  pen-and-ink  sketcliing 
and   for  ]>ainting  small   water-colours. 

The  poems  in  .1  Drift  of  Pinions  and  many  others  are  to 
be  issued  shortly  by  S.  15.  Gundy,  at  the  r)xford  University 
Press,  in  a  new  volume,  entitled  7'he  Lamp  of  Poor  Souls. 


Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall 


307 


The  Lamp  of  Poor  Souls 

[In  many  English  churches  before  the  Reformation  there  was  kept 
a  little  lamp  continually  burning,  called  the  Lamp  of  Poor  Souls. 
People  were  reminded  thereby  to  pray  for  the  souls  of  those  dead 
whose  kinsfolk  were  too  poor  to  pay   for  prayers  and  masses] 

ABOVE  my  head  the  shields  are  stained  with  rust, 
The  wind  has  taken  his  spoil,  the  moth  his  part ; 
Dust  of  dead  men  beneath  my  knees,  and  dust. 
Lord,  in  my  heart. 

Lay  Thou  the  hand  of  faith  upon  my  fears; 

The  priest  has  prayed,  the  silver  bell  has  rung. 
But  not  for  him.     O  unforgotten  tears, 

He  was  so  young! 

Shine,  little  lamp,  nor  let  thy  light  grow  dim. 

Into  what  vast,  dread  dreams,  what  lonely  lands, 
Into  what  griefs  hath  death  delivered  him.. 

Far  from  my  hands? 

Cradled  is  he,  with  half  his  prayers  forgot. 

I  cannot  learn  the  level  way  he  goes. 
He  whom  the  harvest  hath  remembered  not 

Sleeps  with  the  rose. 

Shine,  little  lamp,  fed  with  sweet  oil  of  prayers. 

Shine,  little  lamp,  as  God's  own  eyes  may  shine. 
When  He  treads  softly  down  His  starry  stairs 

And  whispers,  'Thou  art  Mine.' 

Shine,  little  lamp,  for  love  hath  fed  thy  gleam. 

Sleep,  little  soul,  by  God's  own  hands  set  free. 
Cling  to  His  arms  and  sleep,  and  sleeping,  dream, 

And  dreaming,  look  for  me. 

The  Pool 

COME  with  me,  follow  me,  swift  as  a  moth, 
Ere  the  wood-doves  waken. 
Lift  the  long  leaves  and  look  down,  look  down 
Where  the  light  is  shaken. 
Amber  and  brown. 


308  Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall 

On  the  woven  ivory  roots  of  the  reed, 
On  a  floating  flower  and  a  weft  of  weed 
And  a  feather  of  froth. 

Here  in  the  night  all  wonders  are, 

Lapped  in  the  lift  of  the  ripple's  swing, 

A  silver  shell  and  a  shaken  star, 
And  a  white  moth's  wing. 

Here  the  young  moon  when  the  mists  unclose 

Swims  like  the  bud  of  a  golden  rose. 

I  would  live  like  an  elf  where  the  wild  grapes  cling, 

I  would  chase  the  thrush 

From  the  red  rose-berries. 

All  the  day  long  I  would  laugh  and  swing 

With  the  black  choke-cherries. 

I  would  shake  the  bees  from  the  milkweed  blooms, 

And  cool,  O  cool, 

Night  after  night  I  would  leap  in  the  pool, 

And  sleep  with  the  fish  in  the  roots  of  the  rush. 

Clear,  O  clear  my  dreams  should  be  made 

Of  emerald  light  and  amber  shade, 

Of  silver  shallows  and  golden  glooms. 

Sweet,  O  sweet  my  dreams  should  be 

As  the  dark,  sweet  water  enfolding  me 

Safe  as  a  blind  shell  under  the  sea. 

The  Shepherd  Boy 

WHEN   the  red  moon  hangs  over  the   fold, 
And  the  cypress  shadow  is  rimmed  with  gold, 
O  little  sheep,  I  have  laid  me  low, 
My  face  against  the  old  earth's  face, 
Where  one  by  one  the  white  moths  go, 
And  the  brown  bee  has  his  sleeping  place. 
And  then  I  have  whispered,  mother,  hear. 
For  the  owls  are  awake  and  the  night  is  near, 
And  whether  I  lay  me  near  or  far 

No  lip  shall  kiss  me. 

No  eye  shall  miss  me, 
Saving  the  eye  of  a  cold  white  star. 


Marjorie  L.  i\  Pickthall  309 

And  the  old  brown  woman  answers  mild, 

Rest  you  safe  on  my  heart.  O  child. 

Many  a  shepherd,  many  a  king", 

I  fold  them  safe  from  their  sorrowing. 

Gweniver's  heart  is  bound  with  dust, 

Tristram  dreams  of  the  dappled  doe, 

But  the  bugle  moulders,  the  blade  is  rust; 

Stilled  are  the  trumpets  of  Jericho, 

And  the  tired  men  sleep  by  the  walls  of  Troy. 

Little  and  lonely. 

Knowing  me  only, 
Shall  I  not  comfort  you,  shepherd  boy? 

When  the  wind  wakes  in  the  apple  tree, 

And  the  shy  hare  feeds  on  the  w-ild  fern  stem. 

I  say  my  prayers  to  the  Trinity, — 

The  prayers  that  are  three  and  the  charms  that  are  seven 

To  the  angels  guarding  the  tow^ers  of  heaven. — 

And  I  lay  my  head  on  her  raiment's  hem, 

Where  the  young  grass  darkens  the  strawberry  star, 

Where  the  iris  buds  and  the  bellworts  are. 

All  night  I  hear  her  breath  go  by 

Under  the  arch  of  the  empty  sky. 

All  night  her  heart  beats  under  my  head, 

And  I  lie  as  still  as  the  ancient  dead, 

Warm  as  the  young*  lambs  there  with  the  sheep. 

I  and  no  other 

Close  to  my  Mother, 
Fold  my  hands  in  her  hands,  and  sleep. 

The  Bridegroom  of  Cana 

['There  was  a  marriage  in   Cana  of   Galilee And  both 

Jesus  was  called  and   His  disciples,  to  the   marriage.'] 

EIL  thine  eyes.  O  beloved,  my  spouse. 

Turn  them  away. 
Lest  in  their  light  my  life  withdrawn 
Dies  as  a  star,  as  a  star  in  the  day. 
As  a  dream  in  the  dawn. 


v^ 


Slenderly  hang  the  olive  leaves 
Sighing   apart ; 


310  Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall 

The  rose  and  silver  doves  in  the  eaves 
With  a  murmur  of  music  bind  our  house. 
Honey  and  wine  in  thy  words  are  stored, 
Thy  lips  are  bright  as  the  edge  of  a  sword 

That  hath  found  my  heart, 

That  hath  found  my  heart. 

Sweet,  I  have  waked  from  a  dream  of  thee, 

And  of  Him. 

He  who  came  when  the  songs  were  done. 

From  the  net  of  thy  smiles  my  heart  went  free 

And  the  golden  lure  of  thy  love  grew  dim. 

I  turned  to  them  asking,  'Who  is  He, 

Royal  and  sad,  who  comes  to  the  feast 

And  sits  Him  down  in  the  place  of  the  least?' 

And  they  said,  'He  is  Jesus,  the  carpenter's  son.' 

Hear  how  my  harp  on  a  single  string 
Murmurs  of  love. 

Down  in  the  fields  the  thrushes  sing 
And  the  lark  is  lost  in  the  light  above, 
Lost  in  the  infinite,  glowing  whole. 

As  I  in  thy  soul, 

As  I  in  thy  soul. 

Love,  I  am  fain  for  thy  glowing  grace 

As  the  pool  for  the  star,  as  the  rain  for  the  rill. 

Turn  to  me,  trust  to  me,  mirror  me 

As  the  star  in  the  pool,  as  the  cloud  in  the  sea. 

Love,  I  looked  awhile  in  His  face 

And  was  still. 

The  shaft  of  the  dawn  strikes  clear  and  sharp; 

Hush,  my  harp. 

Hush  my  harp,  for  the  day  is  begun. 

And  the  lifting,  shimmering  flight  of  the  swallow 

Breaks  in  a  curve  on  the  brink  of  morn, 

Over  the  sycamores,  over  the  corn. 

Cling  to  me,  cleave  to  me,  prison  me 

As  the  mote  in  the  flame,  as  the  shell  in  the  sea. 

For  the  winds  of  the  dawn  say,  'Follow,  follow 

Jesus   Bar-Joseph,  the  carpenter's   son.' 


Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall  311 


A  Mother  in  Egypt 

['About  midnight  will  1  go  out  into  the  midst  of  Egypt;  and  all 
the  firstborn  in  the  land  of  Egypt  shall  die,  from  the  firstborn 
of  Pharaoh  that  sitteth  upon  the  throne,  even  unto  the  firstborn  of 
the  maid-servant   that   is   behind   the   mill.'] 

IS  the  noise  of  grief  in  the  palace  over  the  river 
For  this  silent  one  at  my  side? 
There  came  a  hush  in  the  night,  and  lie  rose  with  his  hands 
a-quiver 
Like  lotus  petals  adrift  on  the  swing  of  the  tide. 

0  small  soft  hands,  the  day  groweth  old  for  sleeping! 
O  small  still  feet,  rise  up,  for  the  hour  is  late! 

Rise  up,  my  son,  for  I  hear  them  mourning  and  weeping 
In  the  temple  down  by  the  gate. 

Hushed  is  the  face  that  was  wont  to  brighten  with  laughter 

When  I  sang  at  the  mill, 
And  silence  unbroken  shall  greet  the  sorrowful  dawns  here- 
after, 

The  house  shall  be  still. 
Voice  after  voice  takes  up  the  burden  of  wailing, — 

Do  you  heed,  do  you  hear,  in  the  high-priest's  house  by  the 
wall  ? 
But  mine  is  the  grief,  and  their  sorrow  is  all  unavailing. 

Will  he  wake  at  their  call? 

Something  1  saw  of  the  broad,  dim  wings  half  folding 

The  passionless  brow. 
Something  I  saw  of  the  sword  the  shadowy  hands  were  hold- 
ing— 

What  matters  it  now? 

1  held  you  close,  dear  face,  as  I  knelt  and  barkened 
To  the  wind  that  cried  last  night  like  a  soul  in  sin, 

When  the  broad,  bright  stars  dropped  down  and  the  soft  sky 
darkened. 
And  the  Presence  moved  therein. 

I  have  heard  men  speak  in  the  market-place  of  the  city. 
Low  voiced,  in  a  breath, 


312  Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall 

Of  a  god  who  is  stronger  than  ours,  and  who  knows  not  chang- 
ing- nor  pity, 

Whose  anger  is  death. 
Nothing  I  know  of  the  lords  of  the  outland  races, 

But  Amun  is  gentle  and  Hathor  the  Mother  is  mild, 
And  who  would  descend  from  the  light  of  the  peaceful  places 

To  war  on  a  child? 

Yet  here  he  lies,  with  a  scarlet  pomegranate  petal 

Blown  down  on  his  cheek. 
The  slow  sun  sinks  to  the  sand  Hke  a  shield  of  some  burnished 
metal. 

But  he  does  not  speak. 
I  have  called,  I  have  sung,  but  he  neither  will  hear  nor  waken ; 

So  lightly,  so  whitely  he  lies  in  the  curve  of  my  arm, 
Like  a  feather  let  fall  from  the  bird  that  the  arrow  hath  taken. 

Who  could  see  him,  and  harm? 

'The  swallow  flies  home  to  her  sleep  in  the  eaves  of  the  altar, 

And  the  crane  to  her  nest,' 
So  do  we  sing  o'er  the  mill,  and  why,  ah,  why  should  I  falter. 

Since  he  goes  to  his  rest? 
Does  he  play  in  their  flowers  as  he  played  among  these  with 
his  mother? 
Do  the  gods  smile  downward  and  love  him  and  give  him 
their  care? 
Guard  him  well,  O  ye  gods,  till  I  come ;  lest  the  wrath  of  that 
Other 
Should  reach  to  him  there! 


Arthur  Stringer 


/;/  ntnni)ig  the  entire  gamut  of  human  emotions,  in  his 
volume.  'The  Woman  in  the  Rain,'  Mr.  Stringer  takes  us 
from  the  old  and  ever  loved  legends  of  Greece  to  the  intensely 
modern  figure  of  a  city  square,  leading  us  from  the  sensuous 
beauty  of  the  opening  verses,  'The  Passing  of  Aphrodite.'  to 
the  grim  truth  of  the  title-poem,  and  displaying  at  each  step 
boundless  sympathy,  ready  knoicledge,  serious  treatment  of 
his  subject,  and  that  philosophic  aloofness  not  usually  asso- 
ciated zvith  the  lyricist.  He  nrver  appears  to  take  his  zvork 
lightly.  He  is  a  deep  thinker,  getting  ahvays  to  the  core  of 
things,  )naking  sure  of  his  ground  before  he  steps,  and  then 
planting  his  feet  firmly,  as  it  were,  until  he  has  made  a  master- 
stroke with  his  pc)i 'Sappho  in  Leucadia  is  per- 
haps the  most  serious  and  ambitious  effort  Mr.  Stringer  has 
ever  made.  The  drama,  zi'hich  embodies  the  conflict  betzi'een 
the  austere->}iinded  Pittacus  and  the  song  and  joy  loving 
Sappho,  is  replete  zvith  sensuous  movement  and  melody. 
— Florrnck  V.  IIrnderson.  in  the  'Book-News  Monthly." 

[313J 


3U  Arthur  Striiioer 


ARTHUR  Jul  IN  STRINGER,  poet  and  novelist,  of 
Cedar  Springs,  Ontario,  has  already  achieved  greatly. 
His  blank-verse  drama.  "Sappho  in  Leucadia,'  is  an  im- 
aginative, passionate,  artistic  work  of  snrpassing  quality. 
He  has  published  several  books  of  verse,  of  which  The  Woman 
ill  the  Rain  and  Other  Poems,  1907.  is  the  most  notable.  In 
these,  as  Arthur  E.  McFarlane  has  said,  'there  is  maintained 
a  standard  of  beauty,  depth  of  feeling  and  technical  power, 
which  in  Canada  have  had  all  too  little  recognition.'  His 
novels  and  short  stories,  however,  have  had  a  wider  vogue 
and  a  more  lucrative  return. 

His  first  novel.  The  Silver  Poppy.  1903.  a  cleverly  written 
romance  of  passion,  brought  him  prominently  into  the  lime- 
light, and  since  then  he  has  published  many  volumes. — The 
Wire  Tappers.  1906;  Phantom  Wires.  1906;  The  Under 
Groove.  1908;  The  Gun  Runner,  1909;  The  Shadow,  1913: 
The  Prairie  Wife.  1915;  The  Hand  of  Peril.  1915;  and  The 
Door  of  Dread.  1916,  among  the  number — all  containing  vital, 
gripping  work. 

Arthur  Stringer  was  born  in  London.  (Jntario.  February 
26th.  1874. — son  of  Hugh  Arbuthnott  Stringer.  Having  passed 
through  public  school  and  collegiate  institute,  he  attended 
University  College,  Toronto,  and  later,  for  one  academic  year, 
the  University  of  Oxford. 

For  several  }ears  he  was  engaged  in  editorial  work,  first, 
with  the  ^Montreal  Herald  and  second  with  the  American 
Press  Association. 

This  quotation  from  McFarlane's  Appreciation,'  in  the 
Globe  Magazine,  will  be  of  interest; 

In  1901.  Mr.  Stringer  ....  threw  up  his  editorial  position 
and   its   regularity   of   salary  together.     It   may  be   said   at   once   that 

he  has   never  had   to    regret    such    apparent   rashness The 

variety  of  ^\r.  Stringer's  work,  during  recent  years,  must  seem  at 
first  a  httle  bewildering.  He  was  getting  his  inspirations  from  months 
of  roughing  it  in  the  North-West,  from  cruising  the  West  Indies  in 
fruit  steamers,  from  working  a  small  but  highly  productive  Sabine 
farm   at    Cedar    Springs,    on    Lake    Erie,    and    from    touring    southern 

Europe    and    the    Mediterranean Mr.    Stringer    has    given 

us  poetry  as  full  of  beauty  as  a  garden,  and  prose  which  affords  the 
same  delight  as  a  rapier  in  the  hands  of  a  finished  swordsman. 


Arthur  Stringer  ^^^ 


The  Lure  o'  Life 

WHEN  my  life  has  enough  of  love,  and  my  spirit  enough 
of  mirth, 
When  the  ocean  no  longer  beckons  me,  when  the  roadway 
calls  no  more, 
Oh,  on  the  anvil  of  Thy  wrath,  remake  me,  God,  that  day! 

When  the  lash  of  the  wave  bewilders,  and  I  shrink  from  the 

sting  of  the  rain, 
When  I  hate  the  gloom  of  Thy  steel-gray  wastes,  and  slink 

to  the  lamp-lit  shore, 
Oh,  purge  me  in  Thy  primal  fires,  and  fling  me  on  my  way! 

When  I  house  me  close  in  a  twilit  inn,  where  I  brood  by  a 

dying   fire, 
When  I  kennel  and  cringe  with  fat  content,  where  a  pillow 

and  loaf  are  sure, 
Oh,  on  the  anvil  of  Thy  wrath,  remake  me,  God,  that  day! 

When  I  quail  at  the  snow  on  the  uplands,  when  I  crawl  from 

the  glare  of  the  sun, 
When  the  trails  that  are  lone  invite  me  not,  and  the  halfway 

lamps   allure. 
Oh,  purge  me  in  Thy  primal  fires,  and  fling  me  on  my  way! 

When  the  wine  has  all  ebbed  from  an  April,  when  the  Autumn 

of  life  forgets 
The  call  and  the  lure  of  the  widening  West,  the  wind  in  the 

straining  rope. 
Oh,  on  the  anvil  of  Thy  wrath,  remake  me,  God,  that  day! 

When  I  waken  to  hear  adventures  strange  throng  valiantly 

forth  by  night. 
To  the  sting  of  the  salt-spume,  dust  of  the  plain,  and  width  of 
the  western  slope. 
Oh,  purge  me  in  Thy  primal  fires,  and  fling  me  on  my  way! 

When  swarthy  and  careless  and  grim  they  throng  out  under 

my   rose-grown  sash, 
And  I — I  bide  me  there  by  the  coals,  and  I  know  not  heat  nor 

hope. 
Then,  on  the  anvil  of  Thy  zvrath,  remake  mc,  God,  that  day! 


316  Arthur  Stringer 

At  the  Comedy 

LAST   night,   in   snowy   gown   and   glove, 
I  saw  you  watch  the  play 
Where  each  mock  hero  won  his  love 
The  old  unlifelike  way. 

(And  O  were  life  their  little  scene 
IV here  love  so  smoothly  ran. 

How  different,  Dear,  this  world  had  been 
Since  this  old  world  began!) 

For  you,  who  saw  them  gaily  win 

Both  hand  and  heart  away, 
Knew  well  where  dwelt  the  mockery  in 

That  foolish  little  play. 

('If  love  were  all — if  love  were  all,' 

The  viols  sobbed  and  cried, 
'Then  love  were  best  what  e'er  befall!' 

Low,  lozv  the  flutes  replied. 

And  you,  last  night,  did  you  forget, 
So   far  from  me,  so  near? — 

For  watching  there  your  eyes  were  wet 
With  just  an  idle  tear! 

(And  down  the  great  dark  curtain  fell 

Upon  their  foolish  play. 
But  you  and  I  knew — oh,  too  well! — 

Life  went  another  way!) 

The  Old  Garden 

I 

WHERE  the  dim  paths  wind  and  creep 
Down  past  dark  and  ghostly  lands 
Lost  this  many  a  year  in  sleep, 
Still  an  ivied  sun-dial  stands. 

Still  about  the  moss-greened  urns 
Fall  the  rose-leaves  ghostly  white; 

Still  the  sunset  flames  and  burns 
In   the   basin's   ghostly   light. 


Arthur  Stringer  317 


Still  the  Satyr  by   it:,  riiu 

Holds  the  marble  reed  he  bore, 

And  the  brazen  dolphins  swim 
On   the    fountain's   broken   floor. 

Still  afar  some  evening  bell 

Creeps  and  fails,  and  sounds  and  dies, 
Where   the  ghostly   shadows   dwell 

Here  beneath  the  quiet  skies. 

Here  within  the  lichened  walls 

Sleeps  a  land   forever  old, 
Where  untroubled  twilight  falls 

On  the  casements  touched  with  gold. 

Here  the  quiet  hours  flow, 

And  the  years  take  languid  breath, 
Where  the  grasses  only  know 

Dusk  and  Silence,  Sleep  and  Death. 
II 
Yet  in  some  remembered  June 

When  the  bird-notes  ceased  to  ring 
Down   the   echoing   afternoon, 

Here  a  woman  used  to  sing. 

Once  where  still  the  roses  climb 

Round  her  casements  framed  with  green, 
Wrapt  in  thought,  O  many  a  time 

From  her  window  she  would  lean, 

And  when  sun  and  birds  were  gone. 
With  her  cheek  still  in  her  hand. 

Gazed  across  this  shadowy  lawn. 
To  a  dim-grown  valley  land, 

Where  a  white  road  twined  and  curled 
Through  black  hills  that  barred  the  West, 

And  the  unknown  outer  world 
Filled  her  with  a  strange  unrest. 

Here  she  wandered,  brooding-eyed, 

Dowm  each  pathway  fringed  with  box. 

Where  the  hyacinths  still  hide. 
Where  still  flame  the  hollyhocks. 


318  Arthur  Stringer 


And   across  the  whispering  grass 

Where  the  ring-doves  murmured  low, 

Oft  her  singing  heart  would  pass 
In  that  lyric  Long  Ago. 

Here  tuberose  and  poppy  red 

Saw  her  pause  with  lingering  feet, — 
On  the  sun-dial  lean  her  head, 

Crying  out  that  life  was  sweet, — 

Asking  Time,  if  Spring  by  Spring, 
When  she  walked  no  longer  there 

Other  roses  still  could  swing, 
Other  blossoms  scent  tlie  air? — 

Weeping  that  she  needs  must  leave 
Warmth  and  beauty,  for  the  grave — 

Hush,  what  ghostly  Voices  grieve 
Where  the  regal  lilies  zvaveF 

III 
Still  it  sleeps,  this  lonely  place 

Given  o'er  to  dusk  and  dreams ; 
But  her  sad  and  tender  face 

Never   from  the  casement  gleams. 

Still  the  ivied  dial  shows 
In  its  old-time  wash  of  light 

Noonday  open  like  a  rose, 

Though  a  shadow  mark  its  flight. 

Still  the  blossoms  cling  and  bloom 
Deep  about  her  window-square. 

Still  the  sunlight  floods  the  room, 
Still  the  tuberose  scents  the  air; 

Still  it  waits,  her  garden  old, 
Still   the   waning   sunlight   burns 

On  the  casements  tinged  with  gold. 
On  the  green  and  muffled  urns. 

Still  along  the  tangled  walks, 

Though  she  knows  them  not  again. 


Arthur  Stringer  ^19 


Wait  the  patient   rows  of   phlox, 
Pipes  the  Satyr  in  the  rain. 

Though  she  comes  no  more  to  dream 
Here  where  she  and  Youth  were  one, 

Faint  and  ghostly  voices  seem, 
Still  to  frighten  back  the  sun. 

IV 

Can  it  be  that  in  some  gray 

Twilight  She  shall  swing  the  gate? — 

Where  in  eager  disarray 

Still  her  asters  brood  and  wait? 

Where  her  wiser  poppy  knows, 

And  her  valiant  violets 
Look  and  wonder,  and  the  rose 

Round   her   darkened   window    frets? 

And  these  things  that  temporal  seem, 

Rapture,   Music,   Loveliness, 
Beauty  frail,  and  passing  Gleam, 

Shall  outlive  the  hearts  they  press? 

Since,  we  trust,  each  glory  strange, 
Bach  vague  hope  Regret  once  gave. 

Shall  outlive  all  death  and  change, 
As  earth's  love  outlasts  the  grave! 

Destiny 

HE  sat  behind  his  roses  and  did  wake 
With  wanton  hands  those  passions  grim 
That  naught  but  bitter  tears  and  blood  can  slake. 
And  naught  but  years  can  dim. 

So  o'er  their  wine  did  Great  Ones  sit  and  nod. 
Ordaining  War     ....     as  it  befell : 

Men  drunk  with  drum  and  trumpet  mouthed  of  God 
And  reeled  down  blood-washed  roads  to  Hell ! 


17 


320  Arthur  Stringer 


The  Keeper 

WIDE  is  the  world  and  wide  its  open  seas, 
Yet  I  who  fare  from  pole  to  pole  remain 
A  prisoned  Hope  that  paces  ill    at  ease, 
A  captive  Fear  that  fumbles  with  its  chain. 

I  once  for  Freedom  madly  did  aspire, 

And  stormed  His  bars  in  many  a  burst  of  rage : 

But  see,  my  Keeper  with  his  brands  of  fire 

Has  cowed  me  quite  ....  and  bade  me  love  my  cage 

The  Seekers 

KNOCK,  and  the  Door  shall  open :  ah,  we  knocked 
And  found  the  unpiteous  portals  locked. 
Waiting,  we  learned  us  croons  to  while  along 
Those  dreary  watches — and  ye  call  it  Song! 

Seek,  and  thine  eyes  shall  find :  oh,  we  have  sought 
The  Vision  of  our  Dream,  yet  found  it  not. 
We  limn  its  broken  shadow,  that  our  heart 
May  half  remember — and  ye  call  it  Art ! 

War 

FROM  hill  to  hill  he  harried  me ; 
He  stalked  me  day  and  night ; 
He  neither  knew  nor  hated  me ; 
Nor  his   nor  mine  the   fight. 

He  killed  the  man  who  stood  by  me. 

For  such  they  made  his  law ; 
Then  foot  by  foot  I  fought  to  him, 

Who  neither  knew  nor  saw. 

I  trained  my  rifle  on  his  heart ; 

He  leapt  up  in  the  air. 
The  screaming  ball  tore  through  his  breast. 

And  lay  embedded  there. 

Lay  hot  embedded  there,  and  yet 

Hissed  home  o'er  hill  and  sea 
Straight  to  the  aching  heart  of  one 

Who'd  wronged  not  mine  nor  me. 


Arthur  Stringer  ^-^ 

Morning  in  the  North- West 

GREY  countries  and  grim  empires  pass  away, 
And  all  the  pomp  and  glory  of  citied  towers 
Goes  down  to  dust,  as  Youth  itself  shall  age. 
But  O  the  splendour  of  this  autumn  dawn — 
This  passes  not  away !     This  dew-drenched  Range, 
This  infinite  great  width  of  open  space. 
This  cool  keen  wind  that  blows  like  God's  own  breath 
On  life's  once  drowsy  coal,  and  thrills  the  blood. 
This  brooding  sea  of  sun-washed  solitude. 
This  virginal  vast  dome  of  opal  air — 
These,  these  endure,  and  greater  are  than  grief! 
Still  there  is  strength :  and  life,  oh,  life  is  good ! 
Still  the  horizon  lures,  the  morrow  calls. 
Still  hearts  adventurous  seek  outward  trails. 
Still  life  holds  up  its  tattered  hope! 

For  here 
Is  goodly  air,  and  God's  own  greenness  spread. 
Here  youth  audacious  fronts  the  coming  day 
And  age  on  life  ne'er  mountainously  lies. 
Here  are  no  huddled  cities  old  in  sin, 
Where  coil  in  tangled  langours  all  the  pale 
Envenomed  mirths  that  poisoned  men  of  old, 
Where  peering  out  with  ever-narrowing  eyes 
Reptilious  Ease  unwinds  its  golden  scales 
And  slimes  with  ugliness  the  thing  it  eats. 
Here  life  takes  on  a  glory  and  a  strength 
Of  things  still  primal,  and  goes  plunging  on. 
And  what  care  I  of  time-encrusted  tombs, 
What  care  I  here  for  all  the  ceaseless  drip 
Of  tears  in  countries  old  in  tragedy? 
What  care  I  here  for  all  Earth's  creeds  outworn. 
The  dreams  outlived,  the  hopes  to  ashes  turned. 
In  that  old  East  so  dark  with  rain  and  doubt? 
Here  life  swings  glad  and  free  and  rude,  and  I 
Shall  drink  it  to  the  full,  and  go  content! 


322  Arthur  Stringer 


From  *  Sappho  in  Leucadia ' 

Phaon  (bitterly) 
Thus  women  change — and  in  their  time  forget! 
Sappho 

THERE  lies  the  sorrow — if  we  could  forget ! 
For  one  brief  hour  you  gave  me  all  the  love 
That  women  ask,  and  then  with  cruel  hands 
Set  free  the  singing  voices  from  the  cage, 
And  tore  the  glory  from  the  waiting  rose ; 
And  through  life's  empty  garden  still  I  dreamed 
And  called  for  Love,  and  walked  unsatisfied. 
Love !  Love !  'Tis  we  who  lose  it  know  it  best ! 
By  day  a  fire  and  wonder,  and  by  night 
A  wheeling  star  that  sinks  in  Mystery. 
Love !  Love !  It  is  the  blue  of  bluest  skies ; 
The  farthest  green  of  waters  touched  with  sun! 
It  is  the  calm  of  moonlight  and  of  leaves, 
And  yet  the  troubled  music  of  the  Sea  I 
It  is  the  frail  original  of  faith, 
The  timorous  thing  that  seems  afraid  of  light, 
Yet,  loosened,  sweeps  the  world,  consuming  time 
And  tinsel  empires,  grim  with  blood  and  war ! 
It  is  the  voiceless  want  and  loneliness 
Of  blighted  lands  made  wonderful  with  rain ! 
Regret  it  is,  and  song,  and  wistful  tears; 
The  rose  upon  the  tomb  of  afterthought. 
The  only  wine  of  life,  that  on  the  lip 
Of  Thirst  turns  not  to  ashes !     Change  and  time 
And  sorrow  kneel  to  it,  for  at  its  touch 
The  world  is  beautiful,     .     .     .    the  world  is  horn! 

The  Final  Lesson 

I  HAVE  sought  beauty  through  the  dust  of  strife, 
I  have  sought  meaning  for  the  ancient  ache, 
And  music  in  the  grinding  wheels  of  life ; 

Long  have  I  sought,  and  little  found  as  yet 
Beyond  this  truth :  that  Love  alone  can  make 
Earth  beautiful,  and  life  without  regret! 


Kath 


erine 


Hal( 


The  writer  of  'Grey  Kiiiffiiig'  needs  no  introduction  to  Can- 
adian readers,  as  she  is  a  zcell-knoicn  critic  and  short  story 
zvriter,  and  one  of  the  most  prominent  and  best  loved  of  all 
the  hand  of  Canadian  zvomoi  journalists.  The  name  of  Kath- 
erine  Hale  is  an  adornment  to  the  literature  of  our  Dominion, 
one  of  which  ive  may  be  justly  proud.  Her  verse  throbs  zcith 
a  sy))ipathctic  harmony  that  cannot  fail  of  an  appeal,  hcii^ht- 
ened  as  it  is  by  a  rich  poetic  beauty  that  bespeaks  a  lofty  ideal. 
Those  zi'ho  knozv  KatJierine  Hale,  knozv  her  as  an  idealist  zcho 
striz'cs  ever  to  visuali::e  for  the  everyday  toiler  the  haunting 
z-isions  of  beauty  that  are  vouchsafed  to  the  dreamer,  and  thus 
she  brings  the  great  things  of  life  closer  to  her  readers,  ennob- 
ling and  uplifting  their  trivial  round. — Hamilton  'Spectator.' 

Mrs.  Garvin's  zcork  at  its  best  is  delicate,  charming,  fairy- 
like, but  unusually  e.vpressive  of  emotion  and  zvith  unusual 
pozvers  of  imagination. — ^Tarjorv  MacMurchv  in  the  'Tor- 
onto Daily  News.' 


[3231 


324  Kiitlieriiie  Hale 


KATIIEKIXE  HALE  is  the  ])en  name  of  Mrs.  John  W. 
Garvin  of  Toronto,  who  was  formerly  Miss  Ameha 
Beers  Warnock  of  Gait,  Ontario,  the  eldest  daughter  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  Warnock.  She  was  born  in  Gait,  but 
her  father  was  a  native  of  Kilmarnock.  Scotland,  and  her 
mother  was  Miss  Katherine  Hale  Byard.  of  Mobile,  Alabama. 

Major  J.  R.  Hogan,  a  maternal  great-grandfather  of  Mrs. 
Garvin,  was  aide-de-camp  to  La  Fayette,  in  the  State  of  Ala- 
bama, during-  the  latter's  tour  of  the  United  States  in  1824-5. 

Miss  Warnock  was  educated  in  Gait  and  at  ]\Iiss  Aral's 
School  in  Toronto:  and  later  in   New  York   and  in   Europe. 

The  work  of  Katherine  Hale  is  best  known  in  Canada 
through  her  connection,  as  literary  critic,  with  the  Moil  and 
Empire  of  Toronto.  She  has  also  developed  recital  and  lecture 
work,  which  is  well  and  widely  known.  But  it  is  probably 
through  the  medium  of  poetry  that  her  name  has  carried  far- 
thest up  to  the  present  time. 

A  glance  over  many  criticisms  which  followed  the  publica- 
tion in  November,  1914,  of  Grey  Knitting,  a  first  and  slight 
book  of  her  verse,  brings  to  one's  notice  that  a  number  of  the 
most  encouraging  criticisms  were  written  by  English  and 
American  reviewers.  It  is  also  noticeable  that  the  small  broch- 
ure ran  into  four  editions  of  a  thousand  each,  before  it  had  been 
on  the  market  for  six  weeks. 

Her  latest  achievement,  The  JVhitc  Comrade. — a  blank  verse 
war  poem  of  thrilling  interest,  about  five  hundred  lines  in 
length — will   be   published   in    1916. 

The  study  of  music  has  entered  largely  into  the  life  of  this 
writer,  whose  youthful  ambition  was  the  operatic  stage.  It  was 
indeed  through  her  graphic  articles  on  Wagnerian  opera,  sent 
to  the  Mail  and  Empire  from  New  York,  while  she  was  a 
student  in  that  city,  that  led  to  her  appointment  as  the  editor 
of  'Contem])orary  Literature.' 

Several  (jf  her  poems  have  been  set  to  music,  notably  Tn 
The  Trenches'  by  the  well-known  composer.  Gena  Branscombe. 
The  title  of  the  song  is  'Dear  Lad  o"  ^line." 

The  portrait  is  reproduced  in  ])art  from  the  life-size  paint- 
ing by  Edith  Stevenson. 

Katherine  Hale's  love  of  things  lyrical  has  become  so  largely 
a  part  of  her  life  that  its  efiect  is  unmi>takable  in  the  poems 
which  follow. 


Katherine  Hale  325 


At  Noon 

THOU  art  my  tower  in  the  sun  at  noon, 
The  shaft  of  shade  upon  my  golden  way, 
In  painted  space  the  heahng  note  of  gray. 
The  undertone  in  nature's  pagan  rune ; 
And  Hke  a  wave  lashed  to  the  dying  moon, 
When  old  desire  is  haunting  its  old  prey. 
Thy  strength  subdues  the  forces  that  would  slay. 
And  soft  withdrawal  brings,  all  starry-strewn. 

So  doth  the  soul  return  to  Truth's  strong  tower. 
Pilgrim  secure  at  last  of  its  abode. 
Hearing  that  voice  as  beautiful  as  morn : 
'Come  to  the  heart  of  Silence,  O  my  flower. 
Out  from  the  coloured  heat,  the  gleaming  road. 
Into  the  place  where  deathless  light  is  born.' 

Grey  Knitting 

ALL  through  the  country,  in  the  autumn  stillness, 
A  web  of  grey  spreads  strangely,  rim  to  rim ; 
And  you  may  hear  the  sound  of  knitting  needles, 
Incessant,  gentle, — dim. 

A  tiny  click  of  little  wooden  needles. 

Elfin  amid  the  gianthood  of  war ; 
Whispers  of  women,  tireless  and  patient. 

Who  weave  the  web  afar. 

Whispers  of  women,  tireless  and  patient — 
'Foolish,  inadequate !'  we  hear  you  say ; 

'Grey  wool  on  fields  of  hell  is  out  of  fashion,' 
And  yet  we  weave  the  web  from  day  to  day. 

Suppose  some  soldier  dying,  gaily  dying% 

Under  the  alien  skies,  in  his  last  hour. 
Should  listen,  in  death's  prescience  so  vivid. 

And  hear  a  fairy  sound  bloom  like  a  flower — 

I  like  to  think  that  soldiers,  gaily  dying 

For  the  white  Christ  on  fields  with  shame  sown  deep, 
May  hear  the  fairy  click  of  women's  needles, 

As  they  fall  fast  asleep. 


326  Katherine  Hale 


You  Who  Have  Gaily  Left  Us 

YOU  who  have  gaily  left  us  youth-beshorn, 
The  town  is  sunless  and  the  roof  forlorn ; 
Dread  stands  beside  the  pillow  every  morn. 

But  glory  is  a  beacon  in  the  night, 

So  brilliant  that  it  bathes  the  world  in  light, 

And  lures  these  slim  lads  marching  out  to  fight. 

Country  of  mine,  so  very  strong  and  young, 
What  of  dark  banners  fast  before  you  flung! 
What  of  the  awful  battles  yet  unsung ! 

No  joyous  road  I  ask  for  you  to-day, 
I  dare  not  pipe  you  peace  along  the  way 
That  leads  to  Darkness  or  increasing  Day. 

For  Heaven  plays  the  prelude :  drum  and  fife 
Merging  the  morning  into  larger  life 
Challenge  the  noon  of  banners  and  of  strife ; 

Until,  within  the  living  crimson  flame. 

There  seems  to  burn  a  new-born  country's  name. 

The  Friend  of  Light,  and  Honour's  deathless  fame. 

When  You  Return 

WHEN  you  return  I  see  the  radiant  street, 
I  hear  the  rushing  of  a  thousand  feet, 
/  see  the  ghosts  that  ivomen  come  to  greet. 

I  can  feel  roses,  roses  all  the  way, 

The  fearful  gladness  that  no  power  can  stay. 

The  joy  that  glows  and  grows  in  ambient  ray. 

Because  slim  lads  come  marching  home  from  war? 
Truly,  slim  lads,  home  from  the  Very  Far: 
From  fields  as  distant  as  the  farthest  star. 

It  will  be  strange  to  hear  the  plaudits  roll. 
Back  from  that  zone  where  soul  is  flung  on  soul, 
Where  they  go  out  like  sparks  to  one  straight  goal. 


Katherine  Hale  327 


\\  here  souls  go  oul  as  moments  fly, 
Urging  their  claim  on  the  unbending  sky — 
Surely  it  must  be  wonderful  to  die ! 

When  you  return  I  see  the  radiant  street, 
I  hear  the  rushing  of  a  thousand  feet — 
Living  and  dead  with  roses  zve  shall  greet. 

In  the  Trenches 

{Christmas,  1914) 

WAR  gods  have  descended: 
The  world  burns  up  in  fine ! 
Warm  your  hands  at  the  trench's  fire, 
Dear  lad  o'  mine. 

Bullets  cease  this  Christmas  night, 

Only   songs   are  heard. 
If  you  feel  a  phantom  step, 

'Twas  my  heart  that  stirred. 

If  you  see  a  dreamy  light, 

'Tis  the  Christ-Child's  eyes; 
I  believe  he  watches  us. 

Wonderful  and  wise. 

Let  us  keep  our  Christmas  night 

In  the  camp-light  shine ; 
Warm  your  hands  at  the  trench's  fire — 

They  still  hold  mine. 

I  Used  to  Wear  a  Gown  of  Green 

I   USED  to  wear  a  gown  of  green 
And  sing  a  song  to  May, 
When  apple  blossoms  starred  the  stream 
And  Spring  came  up  the  way. 

I  used  to  run  along  with  Love 
By   lanes  the  world   forgets, 

To  find  in  an  enchanted  wood 
The  first  frail  violets. 


328  Katheriue  Hale 


And  ever  'mid  the  fairy  blooms 

And  murmur  of  the   stream, 
We  used  to  hear  the  pipes  of  Pan 

Call  softly  through  our  dream. 

But  now,  in  outcry  vast,  that  tune 

Fades   like   some   little   star 
Lost  in  an  anguished  judgment  day 

And    scarlet   flames   of   war. 

What  can  it  mean  that  Spring  returns 

And  purple  violets  bloom, 
Save  that  some  gypsy  flower  may  stray 

Beside  his  nameless  tomb ! 

To  pagan  Earth  her  gown  of  green, 

Her   elfin   song  to   May — 
With  all  my  soul  I  must  go  on 

Into  the  scarlet  day. 

To  Peter  Pan  in  Winter 

['And  so  it  was  arranged  that  Peter  Pan  should  fly  back  alone  to 
Fairyland,  and  that  once  a  year  Mrs.  Darling  would  allow  Wendy 
to  go  and  stay  a  whole  week  with  him  to  do  his  Spring  cleaning.'] 

SPRING  house-cleaning  in  Arcadie, 
When  every  bough  is  bare; 
'If  it  bring  Wendy  back  to  me, 

'I  wish,'  quoth  Pan,  '  'twere  here.' 
For  Peter  Pan  is  sometimes  sad 

In  spite  of   all  that's   sung; 
He  has  to  pipe  and  dance  like  mad 
To  keep  this  old  world  young. 

And  as  he  pipes  the  fairies  light 

A  star  for  every  tone. 
(Do  starry  lights  burn  just  as  bright 

When  one  is  all  alone?) 
And  as  he  pipes  small  elfin  folk 

Foregather  from  the  moon, 
And  dance,  and  flash,  and  fade  like  smoke 

While  he  plays  on  and  on. 


Katherine  Hale  329 


His  magic  tree-tops  shine  with  ice 

That  used  to  melt  in  green, 
The  people  creep  like  small  brown  mice 

Down  in  the  worlds  between. 
And  Wendy  may  be  well  or  ill, 

And  play  or  go  to  school ; 
But  Pan  sits  high  and  pipes  his  fill 

And  minds  no  mortal  rule. 

O   Peter  Pan,  the  winds  are  cold, 

The  snow  is  deep  and  high; 
The  Never-Never  Land  is  gold. 

And  yet — perhaps  you   sigh; 
Perhaps  you  know,  though  just  an  elf, 

In  your  small  fairy  way, 
How  wretched  one  is  by  himself, 

When  Some  One  Else  can't  stay ! 

So  pipe  your  sweetest,  Peter  Pan, 

And  clang  the  silver  bells ; 
Send  all  the  elfin  din  you  can 

To  where  the  Great  One  dwells, 
Who  holds  the  Spring  within  His  hand, 

That  you  who  wait  above, 
And  we,  in  this  midwinter  world, 

May  call  again — to  Love. 

The  Answer 

UNALTERED  aisles  that  wait  and  wait  forever, 
O  woods  that  gleam  and  stir  in  liciuid  gold. 
What  of  your  little  lover  zvho  departed 
Before  the  year  greiv  old? 

The  leaves  are  very  perfect  in  the  forest, 
This  is  the  perfect  hour  of  summer's  wane. 

And  but  last  year  we  watched  the  blue  October, 
Between  the  parted  boughs,  as  now,  Lorane. 

We  asked  of  Life  the  old,  eternal  questions; 

We  asked  of  God:  'Art  Thou  not  here;  and  why? 


330  Katherine  Hale 


Why  never  come  with  heralds  of  the  morning 
Across  this  blaze  of  sky? 

'Why  build  Thyself  these  great  and  perfect  places; 

\\'hy  build,  and  never  come  to  walk  therein?' 
And  only  rippling  sunshine  was  the  answer, 

Or  little  pattering  footsteps  of  the  rain. 

But  still  we  sought  Him,  in  the  blue-white  winter, 
Or  in  the  rosy  spring  or  shadowy  fall; 

And  faithful  winds  went  forth  with  us  to  meet  him, 
And  all  the  heaven  was  one  vibrating  call. 

We  sought  Him,  and  our  own  love  seemed  the  answer; 

We  called  Him,  and  the  forest  smiled  us  back. 
Then  we  forgot,  and  only  looked  for  laughter 

Along  the  wild-wood  track. 

Yet  sometimes,  when  the  moon  sang  down  her  cadence 
Through  all  the  forest  roof  so  old  and  high. 

We  trembled  from  the  sense  of  all  we  knew  not — 
The  awful  incompleteness  of  the  sky. 

And  all  the  years  we  two  went  forth  together 
We  never  heard  that  third  step  on  the  sod. 

I  was  alone — alone  before  I   felt  it. 
And  turned,  and  looked  on  God. 

And  God  said :  T  am  loneliness  and  sorrow, 
And  I  am  questioning  hope,  and  I  am  strife; 

I  am  the  joy  that  surges  through  my  forest. 
And  I  am  death  in  life. 

'I  am  the  singing  bird,  the  leaf,  the  shadow, 

I  am  the  circle  of  the  endless  earth ; 
Out  of  the  infinite  of  all  creation 

I  am  the  silence  where  the  soul  finds  birth.' 

And  so,  unaltered  aisles  that  wait  forever 

And  woods  that  gleam  and  stir  in  liquid  gold. 

You  have  made  answer  for  the  little  lover 
Who  passed  ere  you  grezv  old. 


Robert  Norwood 


Mr.  Norzi'ood's  is  a  new  voice  in  Canadian  poetry.  But 
though  neiv,  it  is  a  voice  already  mellowed,  whose  theme  has 
been  won  out  of  years  devoted  to  scholarship  and  philosophic 
thought;  ivhose  music  has  hack  of  it  a  technique  formed  accord- 
ing to  classical  sta>idards Those  zvho  read  Mr. 

Norzvood's  sonnets  zvill  note  his  faculty  of  choosing  right 
ivords,  of  evolving  fresh  metaphor,  of  combining  variety  zvith 
beauty,  of  mingling  perception  and  philosophy  zvith   niusical 

skill In  his  'Dives'  the  poet  sets  out  to  discover 

rather  than  to  accept.  His  text,  for  the  poem  has  a  text  goldenly 
threaded  into  the  zvarp  and  zuoof  of  the  zvhole,  is  concerned 
zvith  the  mystic  union  of  Christ  with  mankind.  It  is  a  text  that 
goes  dozvn  as  deep  as  hell  and  zvhich  soars  as  high  as  heaven, 
to  shozv  that  there  is  no  duality,  no  dualism,  no  duarchy:  that 
all  things,  create  and  uncreate,  are  governed  from  one  point, 
made  "f  one  substance,  vitoli::ed  by  one  principle — that  Love 
is  not  only  the  fulfilling  but  the  origin  of  the  Lazv. — Fanfan 
in  the  'Free  Press,'  London,  Ontario. 

[331] 


332  Robert  Xorwood 

IT  was  Emerson  who  said  that  the  chief  event  in  chronology 
was  the  birth  of  a  poet,  and  the  great  seer  was  rig'ht.  But 
he  meant  of  course  a  poet  with  the  keen  perception,  the 
intense  emotion,  the  comprehensive  mentahty  and  the  imagin- 
ative vision  of  genius. 

In  the  Rev.  Robert  W.  Norwood,  M.A.,  Rector  of  the  Mem- 
orial Church,  London,  Ontario,  whose  first  volume  of  verse, 
entitled  His  Lad,x  of  the  Sonnets,  appeared  in  1915,  Canada 
has,  I  believe,  just  such  a  poet  as  Emerson  had  in  mind. 

This  opinion  is  not  based  on  the  sonnet  sequence,  the  title 
of  which  was  selected  as  that  of  his  book,  brilliant,  beautiful 
and  rare  as  such  an  achievement  is,  but  rather  on  the  origin- 
ality of  conception,  the  imaginative  reach  and  the  dramatic 
power  of  the  poet  as  exemplified  in  Dives  in  Torment,  and 
in  The  Witch  of  Endor,  a  drama  (1916;  McClelland,  Goodchild 
and  Stewart,  Toronto)  ;  on  the  comprehending  sympathy  and 
love  and  the  new  philosophic  thought  as  expressed  in  his  two 
unpublished  volumes,  The  Modernists  and  Songs  of  a  Little 
Brother  which  will  be  issued  in  1917;  and  on  the  many  evi- 
dences throughout  his  work  of  ripe  and  wide-ranging  scholar- 
ship. 

Mr.  Norwood  was  born  in  Christ  Church  Rectory,  New 
Ross,  Lunenburg  county,  Nova  Scotia,  March  27th,  1874,  .son 
of  the  Rev.  Joseph  W.  Norwood  and  Edith,  daughter  of 
Captain  Harding.  He  was  educated  at  Coaticook  Academy, 
Quebec ;  at  Bishop's  College,  Lennoxville,  Quebec ;  and  at 
King's  College  Windsor,  Nova  Scotia,  where  he  graduated  in 
Arts  in  1897.  In  December  of  the  same  year  he  was  ordained 
deacon  in  Halifax  by  Bishop  Courtney,  and  in  the  following 
year  was  ordained  priest  by  the  same  dignitary. 

At  King's  College,  Mr.  Norwood  had  the  good  fortune  to 
have  as  his  Professor  of  English  Literature,  Mr.  Charles  G.  D. 
Roberts,  who  detected  the  poetic  gift  of  the  ambitious  student, 
and  so  taught  and  encouraged  him  as  to  become  the  most 
moulding  influence  in  his  career. 

In  1899,  Mr.  Norwood  was  married  to  Ethel,  a  daughter 
of  George  McKeen,  M.D.,  of  Baddeck,  C.B.,  and  their  two 
daughters  and  a  son — Ailcen,  Robert  and  Jean — make  glad 
the  rectory,  and  inspire  their  poet  father  to  sing  new  songs. 


Robert  Xorwood  333 


His  Lady  of  the  Sonnets 

{From  the  Sonnet  Sequence) 

II 

I    MEET  you  in  the  mystery  of  the  night, 
A  dear  Dream-Goddess  on  a  crescent  moon; 
An  opalescent  splendour,  like  a  noon 
Of  lilies  ;  and  I  wonder  that  the  height 
Should  darken  for  the  depth  to  give  me  light; 
Light  of  your  face,  so  lovely  that  I  swoon 
With  gazing,  and  then  wake  to  find  how  soon 
Joy  of  the  world  fades  when  you  fade  from  sight. 

Beholding   you,    I    am    Endymion, 
Lost  and  immortal  in  Latmian  dreams ; 
With   Dian  bending  down   to  look   upon 
Her  shepherd,  whose  seonian  slumber  seems 
A  moment,  twinkling  like  a  starry  gem 
Among  the  jewels  of  her  diadem. 

IV 

MY  16ve  is  like  a  spring  among  the  hills 
Whose  brimming  waters  may  not  be  confined 
But  pour  one  torrent  through  the  ways  that  wind 
Down  to  a  garden ;  there  the  rose  distills 
Its  nectar;  there  a  tall,  white  lily  fills 
Night  with  anointing  of  two  lovers,  blind, 
Dumb,   deaf,  of  body,   spirit,   and  of  mind 
From  breathless  blending  of  far-sundered  wills. 

Long  ere  my  love  had  reached  you,  hard  I  strove 
To  send  its  torrent  through  the  barren  fields; 
I  wanted  you,  the  lilied  treasure-trove 
Of  innocence,  whose  dear  possession  yields 
Immortal  gladness  to  my  heart  that  knows 
How  you  surpass  the  lily  and  the  rose. 


L 


V 

IKE  one  great  opal  on  the  breast  of  Night. 
Soft  and  translucent,  hangs  the  orb  of  June! 


334  Eobert  Norwood 

I  hear  wild  pipings  of  a  joyous  tune 

Played  on  a  golden  reed  for  the  delight 

Of  you,  my  hidden,  lovely  Eremite — 

You  by  the  fountain  from  the  marble  hewn — 

You  silent  as  in  dream,  with  flowers  strewn 

About  your  feet — you  goddess,  robed  in  white! 

Mute  and  amazed,  I  at  the  broken  wall 

Lean  fearful,  lest  the  sudden,  dreadful  dawn 

For  me  Diana's  awful  doom  let  fall; 

And  I  be  cursed  with  curious  Actseon, 

Save  that  you  find  in  me  this  strong  defence — 

My  adoration  of  your  innocence. 

VI 

WHEN  from  the  rose  mist  of  creation  grew 
God's  patient  waiting  in  your  wide-set  eyes, 
The  morning  stars,  and  all  the  host  that  flies 
On  wings  of  love,  paused  at  the  wondrous  blue 
With  which  the  Master,  mindful  of  the  hue, 
Stained  first  the  crystal  dome  of  summer  skies ; 
And  afterward  the  violet  that  vies 
With  amethyst,  before  He  fashioned  you. 

And  I  have  trembled  with  those  ancient  stars. 

My  heart  has  known  the  flame-winged  seraphs'  song; 

For  no  indifferent,  dreamy  eyelid  bars 

Me  from  the  blue,  nor  veils  with  lashes  long 

Your  love,  that  to  my  tender  gazing  grows 

Bold  to  confess  it:  I  am  glad  he  knows! 

IX 

LAST  night — or  was  it  in  the  golden  morn — 
Once  more  I  dreamed  that  I  alone  did  fare 
Forth  into  spirit-silences;  and  there 
I  found  you  not ;  my  star  was  set !  Forlorn, 
I  sought  the  kindred  company  of  worn 
And  stricken  souls — lost,  sundered  souls,  who  bear 
Old  and  avoided  crosses  with  each  care 
Woven  together  in  their  crowns  of  thorn. 


Kobert  ^""orwood  ''^^ 

Gods  of  the  patient,  vain  endeavour,  these 
Claimed  me  and  called  me  fellow,  comrade,  friend, 
And  bade  me  join  in  their  brave  litanies ; 
Because,  though  I  had  failed  you,  I  dared  bend 
Before  you  without  hope  of  one  reward, 
Save  that  in  loving'  you  my  soul  still  soared. 

X 

LAST  night  I  crossed  the  spaces  to  your  side, 
As  you  lay  sleeping  in  the  sacred  room 
Of  our  great  moment.     Like  a  lily's  bloom, 
Fragile  and  white  were  you,  my  spirit-bride, 
For  pain  and  loneliness  with  you  abide, 
And  Death  had  thought  to  touch  you  with  his  doom, 
Until  Love  stood  angelic  at  the  tomb. 
Drew  sword,  sm.ote  him,  and  life's  door  opened  wide. 

I  looked  on  you  and  breathed  upon  your  hair — 
Your  hair  of  such  soft,  brown,  translucent  gold! 
Nor  did  you  know  that  I  knelt  down  in  prayer. 
Clasped  hands,  and  worshipped  you  for  the  untold 
Magnificence  of  womanhood   divine — 
God's  miracle  of  Water  turned  to  Wine! 

XXIV 

I  AM  all  gladness  like  a  little  child ! 
Grief's  tragic  figure  of  the  veiled  face 
Fades  from  my  path,  moving  with  measured  pace 
Back  from  the  splendour  that  breaks  on  the  wild. 
High  hills  of  sorrow,  where  the  storm-clouds  piled 
In  drift  of  tears.     Lo!  with  what  tender  grace 
Joy  holds  the  world  again  in  her  embrace 
Since  you  came  forth,  and  looked  on  me.  and  smiled. 

Down  in  the  valley  shines  a  scimiter — 

A  stream  with  autumn-gold  deep  damascened; 

And  of  the  bards  of  day  one  loiterer 

Still  lingers  at  his  song,  securely  screened 

By  foliage.     Dear,  what  miracle  is  this. 

Transforming  void  and  chaos  with  a  kiss! 


336  Robert  Norwood 

XXVIII 

COMPANION  of  the  highroad,  hail !  all  hail ! 
Day  on  his  shoulder  flame  of  sunset  bears, 
As  he  goes  marching  where  the  autumn  flares 
A  banner  to  the  sky;  in  russet  mail 
The  trees  are  trooping  hither  to  assail 
Twilight  with   spears ;  a   rank  of  coward  cares 
Creep  up,  as  though  to  take  us  unawares, 
And  find  their  stratagems  of  none  avail. 

Accept  the  challenge  of  the  royal  hills. 
And  dare  adventure  as  we  always  dared! 
Life  with  red  wine  his  golden  chalice  fills, 
And  bids  us  drink  to  all  who  forward  fared — 
Those  lost,  white  armies  of  the  host  of  dream; 
Those  dauntless,  singing  pilgrims  of  the  Gleam! 

Dives  in  Torment 

(Latter  Half) 
'HIS  was  my  failure,  who  thought  that  the  feast 
Rivalled  the  rapture  of  bird  on  the  wing; 

Rivalled  the  lily  all  robed  like  a  priest; 

Smoke  of  the  pollen  when  Rose-censers  swing. 

This  was  my  folly,  who  gave  for  a  gown — 
Purple  and  gold,  and  a  bracelet  and  rings, 
Shouts  in  the  streets  as  I  rode  through  the  town — 
Life  in  the  love  of  the  kinship  of  things. 

Lazarus,  Lazarus,  this  is  my  thirst, 
Fever  from  flame  of  the  love  I  have  missed; 
Ache  of  the  heart  for  the  friends  I  have  cursed; 
Longing  for  lips  that  I  never  have  kissed! 

Hell  is  for  him  who  hath  never  found  God 
Hid  in  the  bramble  that  burns  by  the  way; 
Findeth  Him  not  in  the  stone  and  the  clod ; 
Heareth  Him  not  at  the  cool  of  the  day. 

Hell  is  for  him  who  hath  never  found  Man. 
God  and  my  Brother,  I  failing  to  find. 
Failed  to  find  me ;  so  my  days  were  a  span 
Void  of  the  triumph  of  Spirit  and  Mind. 


T 


Robert  Norwood  '^^'^ 


Once,  I  recall,  at  the  table  I  leaned 

Back  on  the  breast  of  Pomona,  my  slave, 

Saw  through  the  window,  with  lattice-work  screened, 

Thee  in  thy  rags,  and  I  laughed!  then  grew  grave: 

Up  the  white  street  came  a  Man  with  a  face 
Sad  with  the  woe  and  the  pain  of  the  world; 
Moving  with  kingliness,  ease,  and  a  grace ; 
Crowned  with  wine-coloured  hair  wavy  and  curled 

Over  broad  shoulders,  so  broad  that  I  vowed 
Here  was  Messias — the  Samson — the  King! 
Leaped  from  the  table  and  joined  with  the  crowd; 
Offered  my  purple,  my  bracelet,  my  ring ! 

Then  through  the  clamour  and  dust  of  the  street 
Words  of  rebuke  were  directed  to  me: 
'Lift  thou  up  Lazarus;  give  him  a  seat 
High  among  all  who  are  feasting  with  thee.' 

Lift  up  the  beggar!  I  laughed  at  Him  there — 
'Thou  and  Thy  tattered  ones  take  to  the  street — 
I  to  the  palace     .     .     Begone !     .     .     And  beware ! 
Caiaphas  comes,  and  the  Sanhedrin  meet! 

'Go!  or  I  hale  Thee  to  judgment  of  them; 
Go !  or  Thy  God  shall  avail  Thee  in  vain ; 
Thou  art  of  Japheth,  and  I  am  of  Shem, 
Lazarus,   outcast   and  cursed   with   Cain ! 

'Needs  must  there  be  a  division  of  men ; 
Hewer  of  wood  is  the  Gibeonite, 
Cutter  of  stone  in  the  quarries,  and  then 
Slave  to  the  Covenant-Israelite.' 

'Nay,  all  are  equal  and  loved  of  the  Lord,' 
Whispered  the  Stranger.     The  listening  street 
Filled  with  the  murmur  of  those  who  adored. 
Hushed  at  the  sound  of  His  voice  that  was  sweet, 

Stirring  my  heart  as  a  harp  in  the  hall, 
Silent  for  ages,  is  stirred  by  the  wind 
Breathed  through  the  arras;  and  memories  call 
Over  the  summits  of  spirit  and  mind. 


338  Kobert  Norwood 

Yea,  for  a  moment  I  struggled  with  Love; 
Yearned  to  embrace  thee  and  pour  on  thy  hair 
Oil  of  anointing,  and  place  thee  above 
All  of  the  guests  who  were  gathering  there — 

There  in  my  palace  of  pleasure  and  ease, 
Builded  by  Herod,  and  bought  with  my  gold, 
Portaled  and  curtained  with  soft  tapestries 
Woven  at  looms  of  the  Orient,  sold 

Down  in  Damascus.     A  palm  in  the  sands, 
That  was  my  palace ;  a  palm  with  a  soul 
Breathing  of  beauty  when  each  leaf  expands 
Out  to  the  desert  which  brims  like  a  bowl — 

Brims  like  a  bowl  of  Falernian  wine 
Turned  to  the  sun !  O  my  palace  and  hall ! 
O  sound  of  the  psaltery  under  the  vine 
Grown  in  the  garden!  O  footsteps  that  fall 

Soft  as  the  leaves  in  a  pomegranate  grove. 
Soft  on  the  pavement  of  beryl  and  pearl 
Under  the  moon  when  my  Miriam  strove. 
Laughing,  to  dance  down  the  Syrian  girl! 

These  thrust  between  my  compassion  and  thee — 
Beauty  that  mocked  like  a  maid  from  her  bower — 
Beauty  that  looked  through  the  lattice  at  me ; 
Sighed:  T  have  tarried,  my  Love,  for  this  hour!' 

Then  to  the  palace  all  flaming  I  went, 
Flaming  with  love  for  Pomona,  my  pride. 
Back  like  a  bow  her  dear  body  I  bent. 
Kissed  her  and  placed  her  in  joy  at  my  side ; 

Crowned  her  with  myrtle,  proclaimed  her  a  queen; 
Drank  to  her  eyes  and  her  lips  and  her  hair ; 
Clasped  on  her  throat  of  an  ivory  sheen 
Gems  of  an  order  kings  only  might  wear. 

Oh,  how  she  sparkled  and  gleamed  like  a  sword! 
Oh,  how  the  cymbals  and  tabours  did  sound! 
Oh,  My  Pomona,  my  loved  and  adored — 
Dust  of  the  body  is  dust  of  the  ground! 


Robert  Norwood  339 


For  I  forgot  Him,  and  bought  with  my  gold 
Houses  and  lands.     Yea,  I  sought  far  and  wide 
Pleasure  and  ease.    Then  one  day  I  was  old.     .     .     . 
Darkness  came  over  the  noon     .     .     .     and  I  died! 

Dead  and  companioned  in  pomp  to  the  grave ! 
Dead  and  forgotten  in  less  than  a  day 
Save  by  Pomona,  my  mistress  and  slave 
Sold  unto  Herod!     .     .     Oh,  she  had  a  way. 

Turn  of  the  head  and  glance  of  the  eye ! 
Touch  of  the  hand  and  a  fall  of  the  feet ! 
Voice  that  was  coo  of  the  dove  and  a  cry 
Heard  in  the  night  when  the  seraphim  meet! 

Sometimes  I  fancy  Gehenna's  abyss 
Gleams  with  a  light  that  is  love;  and  I  feel 
Lips  on  my  lips  in  the  tenderest  kiss, 
Making  hell  heaven:  as  though  the  appeal 

Sent  from  my  soul  to  Pomona  had  gained 
Heart  and  the  whole  of  her  throned  on  a  star, 
Where  for  an  aeon  of  bliss  she  hath  reigned 
Lonely  for  Dives  so  lost  and  afar ! 

Lazarus !  Nearer !  The  light  on  thy  face 
Shines  through  the  dark!  Oh,  what  glory  is  thine! 
Nay,  not  too  near  lest  thou  see  my  disgrace 
Naked !  behold  bruised  the  image  divine ! 

Lazarus !  Pity !  Pursue  not  my  soul 
Down  the  last  gulf !  I  am  fearful  of  thee — 
Not  of  Jehovah,  Whose  thunders  may  roll 
Over  my  head — Have  thou  pity  on  me! 

This  have  I  learned  in  the  torment  of  hell: 

Man  is  the  judge  of  the  soul  that  hath  sin; 

Man  must  raise  man  from  the  depths  where  he  fell, 

Hurled  by  the  hand  of  his  passion.     Begin, 

Lazarus,  Lord  of  the  Light  and  the  dark; 
Stand  on  the  cloud  that  hath  bridged  the  abyss. 
Judging  my  cause ;  for  my  spirit  is  stark 
Under  thy  glance  in  abandon  of  bliss! 
18 


340  Robert  Norwood 

Yea,  there  is  joy  in  the  judgment;  a  peace 
I  have  not  known  in  an  aeon  of  pain ; 
Joy  in  the  thought  that  thy  love  will  not  cease 
Till  it  hath  cleansed  all  my  spirit  from  stain. 

Therefore  I  hail  thee,  O  Lazarus !  cry : 
'Hail  to  the  love  that  restoreth  the  years 
The  locusts  have  eaten !  Search  me  and  try 
Thought  of  my  heart  and  tale  of  my  tears!' 

Try  me  and  prove  me ;  for  I  am  undone, 
Conquered  by  love  of  a  love  that  hath  sought 
Me  unto  hell !  Thou  hast  triumphed  and  won, 
Lazarus,  who  for  my  spirit  hath  fought. 

Yield  I  the  trophies  of  battle;  lay  down 
All  of  the  pride  and  the  hatred  of  heart; 
Weeping  I  give  thee  my  sceptre  and  crown ; 
Nothing  I  claim;  not  a  tithe,  not  a  part! 

Lazarus,  art  thou  the  same  that  I  saw 

Begging   for   crumbs?     Thou   hast   changed,   thou   hast 

changed ! 
Through  what  dominions  of  wonder  and  awe. 
Beauty  and  joy,  hast  thou  ranged,  hast  thou  ranged? 

Kingly  and  glorious,  mantled  with  flame, 
Lo !  in  thyself  the  Messias  I  see. 
Lazarus,  thou  and  the  Christ  art  the  same, 
Thou  art  the  Christ  and  the  Master  of  me — 

Thou  art  Messias!    ....    And  this  Paradise!    .    .    . 
There  is  Pomona!    ....    There  Mother  who  gave 
Breast  to  her  babe!    ....    From  Gehenna  I  rise 
Cleansed  by  a  love  that  is  mighty  to  save! 

Light,  and  the  sound  of  a  song  that  is  love! 
Light,  and  the  freedom  of  spirit  to  soar ! 
Light,  and  Messias  enthroned  above 
High  where  the  seraphim  bow  and  adore ! 


M 


arian 


Osb 


ome 


These   poems    are    all   graceful    and    melodious 

The  author  tries  many  metres,  both  regular  and  irregular, 
.  .  .  .  they  are  zuell  controlled  and  lend  variety  to  her 
muse.  Pur  the  )nost  part  the  verses  are  of  love  and  con- 
templative moods The  author's  gift  of  dignified 

and  harmonious  verse  is  at  its  best  in  the  sonnets:  and  there 
is  a  life  given  briefly  and  illuminatingly  in  'The  Professor's 

Story,'  a  little  poem  in  the  manner  of  Brozcning 

— 'The  Times,'  London,  Eni^land. 

A  collectioji  of  poems  of  a  high  order They  Zi'ill 

be  appreciated  by  all  true  lovers  of  poetry.     Mrs.   Osborne 
proves  herself  skilled   with   various   measures.     The  first  of 
her  sonnets  is  entitled,  'William  Osier': — 
'Tlie  man  zi'hose  simple  human  art 
Is  to  bestoii'.  zvith  generous  thought  and  free, 
On  fellow-man.   his  ei'er-zvelcome  guest, 
The  golden  treasures  of  his  mind  and  heart, 
Of  ancient  lore,  and  life's  philosophy.'     .     . — 'Canada.' 
[341] 


342  Marian  Osborne 


MRS.  OSBORNE'S  mother  was  a  sister  of  the  late  Rev. 
Featherston  Osier,  M.A.,  whose  sons  have  won  such  high 
distinction,  and  her  father  was  the  late  George  Grant  Francis, 
of  Wales. 

Marian  Francis  was  born  in  the  city  of  Montreal  and  was 
educated  at  Hellmuth  College  and  at  the  Collegiate  Institute, 
London,  Ontario,  and  at  Trinity  College,  Toronto.  At  the 
age  of  seventeen  she  married  Mr.  Charles  Lambert  Bath,  and 
lived  in  Wales  for  the  ensuing  five  years,  until  her  husband's 
death.  Of  this  marriage  there  are  two  children,  a  son,  who 
is  in  the  Royal  Flying  Corps,  and  a  daughter. 

In  1902,  she  married  Mr.  H.  C.  Osborne,  M.A.,  barrister, 
and  member  of  the  Toronto  Stock  Exchange— now  Lieuten- 
ant-Colonel, attached  to  the  Headquarters  Staff,  2nd  Division, 
Ontario. 

This  promising  author  has  inherited  literary  talent  from 
both  grandfathers — her  mother's  father  particularly  having 
been  a  noted  writer,  in  his  day,  on  scientific  subjects  pertain- 
ing to  medicine.  In  this  connection  it  is  interesting  to  remem- 
ber that  her  cousin.  Sir  W'ilUam  Osier,  as  a  writer  of  medical 
works,   has   a   world-wide   reputation. 

Airs.  Osborne  is  also  noted  in  Toronto  for  her  skill  in  sports, 
having  recently  won  the  championship  in  fencing,  and  in  or- 
namental swimming. 

Since  the  publication  in  England,  in  1914,  of  her  book  of 
verse,  entitled  Poems,  she  has  written  'The  Song  of  Israfel,' 
which  appeared  in  The  University  Magazine,  and  other  poems 
of  merit,  and  has  been  occupied  in  the  writing  of  a  novel. 

Love's  Enchantment 

AS  when  two  children,  hand  clasped  fast  in  hand. 
Explore  the  dimness  of  a  fairy  bower 
In  tremulous  encroachment,  each  one  fanned 
To   ardour   by   his   playmate's    fancied   power; 
Then  see  with  wondering  eyes  the  thing  they  sought, 
Half  feared,  half  hoped  for,  suddenly  in  view, 
So  we  on  tip-toe  came,  and  dear  Love  wrought 
Enchantments  for  us,  long  before  we  knew 


Marian  Osborne  343 

Each  otlier\  hcail ;  llicii  led  us  f^aily  o'er 
The  flower-starred  meadows,  onward,  eagerly. 
Until  we  reached  at  length  the  open  door 
Of  his  domain — for  thus  it  was  to  be ; 
There  in  one  brimming  kiss  soul  cried  to  soul 
And  found  completion  'neath   Love's  aureole. 

Love's  Gifts 

BELOVED,  can   I   make   return   to  thee 
For  all  the  gifts  which  thy  rich  heart  doth  hold. 
Gifts  that  have  turned  my  life's  gloom  into  gold 
And  opened  wisdom's  door  with  magic  key. 
My  eyes  enchanted  see  love's  mystery, 
And  though  I  fear,  yet  would  I  fain  be  bold. 
For  thy  voice  thrills  on  ears  no  longer  cold 
And  murmurs  wondrous  music,  tenderly. 
And  though  my  hands  hold  naught,  yet  would  I  part 
The  curtains  of  my  soul  to  give  thee  bliss. 
Answer  thee  in  the  throbbing  of  my  heart 
And  soothe  thy  fevered  lips  with  one  deep  kiss. 
Ah!  let  no  shadow  fall  our  souls  athwart, 
For  life  holds  nothing  greater,  love, — than  this. 

Love's  Anguish 

SHALL  I  with  lethal  draughts  drowse  every  thought 
And  let  the  days  pass  by  with  silent  tread ; — 
Dream  that  the  vanished  hour  1   long  have  sought 
Is  once  more  mine,  and  you  no  longer  dead? 
How  shall  I  grasp  the  skirts  of  happy  chance 
And  calm  my  spirit  in  adventurous  ways, 
Like  bold   Don   Quixote  hold  aloft  my  lance 
Against  the  world  without  thy  meed  of  praise? 
How  can  I  live  through  long  discordant  days, 
LIow  cheat  despair,  or  speed  Time's  lagging  feet. 
Since  I  have  lost  the  fragrance  of  love's  ways 
That  turned  life's  winter  into  springtime  sweet? 
Come  to  me,  Death,  come,  ere  it  be  too  late ; 
Thy  kiss  alone  can  draw  the  sting  of  Fate. 


344  Marian  Osborne 


Despair 

THE  darkness  of  the  night  bewildering 
Falls  on  a  world  of  chaos,  and  alone 
I  lie.  and  listen  for  the  single  string 
Of  Hope,  with  strained  ears,  but  hear  no  moan 
Nor  any  sound,  save  only  the  dull  beat 
Of  my  starved  heart,  that  totters  on  the  brink 
Of  abjectness,  reason  dethroned,  her  seat 
Usurped  by  folly.     Dear  God!  let  me  sink 
Forever  out  of  sight  in  nothingness, 
As  crazed  stars  fall  from  heaven.    Woe  is  me ! 
Is  death  too  merciful  for  my  distress? 
Or  does  my  pain  mean  nothing  unto  Thee? 
Life's  stony  road  I've  sufifered  passing  well. 
Now  its  lone  sign-post  points  to  my  soul's  hell. 

If  I  Were  Fair 

IF  only   I   were   fair, 
Or  had  some  charm  to  bind 
In  tender  loving  ways 
The  passing  of  the  days, 
Life  would  seem  less  unkind 
Less  hard  at  times  to  bear, 
If  I  were  only  fair. 

If  only  I  were  fair 

And  had  blest   Beauty's  dower, 

I  should  hear  flutterings 

Of  Love's  mysterious  wings 

And  feel  his  kisses  shower 

On  lips  and  brow  and  hair. 

If  I  were  only  fair. 

If  only  1  were  fair, 

A  child,  whose  heart  beat  free. 

Would  lay  its  cheek  on  mine. 

Our  arms  would  intertwine. 

Sweetly,  caressingly — 

A  child  that  I  might  bear. 

If  I  were  only  fair. 


Marian  Osborne  ^^^ 

If  only  I  were  fair. 
As  I  passed  down  the  street 
Some  weary  waiting"  eyes 
Might  smile  in  glad  surprise, 
As  though  the  sun  to  greet. 
How    I   could  banish  care, 
If  I  were  only  fair! 

If  only  I  were  fair, 
I  would  be  generous  too ; 
In  my  love-laden  eyes 
Forgiving  tears  would  rise. 
And,  finding  one  man  true, 
I  might  then  all  things  dare, 
If  I  were  only  fair. 

The  Song  of  Israfel 

['And  the  angel    Israfel,   whose  heart-strings   are  a   lute,  and   who 
has  the  sweetest  voice  of   all  God's  creatures.' — Koran.] 

FAIR  Israfel,  the  sweetest  singer  of  Heaven, 
Shook  back  his  burning  curls,  and  from  his  seven 
Stringed  lute  swept  an  impassioned  prayer 
So  full  of  yearning  that  the  very  air 
Celestial  seemed  surcharged  with  pleading  love. 
Importunate  it  throbbed  and  swelled  above 
Each  diamond  star-lit  crevice  of  the  skies 
That  oped  to  hearken,  and  from  shimmering  eyes 
Let  down  their  tear-spun  rainbows  for  the  song. 
Eager  it  sped,  and  trembling  pulsed  along 
Craving  a  shelter  and  a  sanctuary 
To  weave  anew  on  earth  Heaven's  harmony. 

The  dying  sun  had  laid  his  hand  of  splendour 
Upon   the   watching   lake.      Burning,   yet   tender. 
His  parting  kiss  enraptured  all  the  night. 
A  mystic  barque  seemed  in  the  golden  light 
Like  some  pale  ghostly  moth,  that  flies  away 
VV^ith  fluttering  wings  out-drooped  from  circling  day. 
Onward  she  came,  borne  by  the  music's  breath. 
Unearthly  as  an  image  after  death. 
Rhythmic  she  swooned  and  dreamed. 


346  Marian  Osborne 

And  ever  idly  seemed 

To  float,  as  lilies  float  upon  a  stream 

Whose  slackened  pulses  halt  awhile  to  dream. 

Then  to  the  soul  of  those  whose  eag"er  ears 
Were  not  clay-sealed,  came  music  born  of  tears. 

Far  winged  memories, 

Angelic  harmonies, 
Haunting  as  dear  dead  loves  for  which  men  mourn, 
Sweet  as  remembered  joys  to  hearts  forlorn. 
The  melody  was  fraught  with  dreams  of  Spring 
Poured  from  uplifted  throats  of  birds  who  sing 
In  silvery  ecstasy  of  lover's  sighs 
And  of  the  pansied  darkness  in  love's  eyes. 
While  over  all  the  azure  vaulted  height 
Of  heaven  circled  a  world's  delight. 

The   silences   made  music.     The   still   air 
Breathed  incense-laden  consecrated  prayer. 
The  grave  and  cowled  Night  knelt,  Hstening, 
And  hushed  the  restless  winds,  that  whispering, 
Creep  on  the  borderland  of  sleep. 
Stilled  were  earth's  murmurings  deep. 
The  garrulous  waves  ceased  playing  by  the  shore 
In  bubbling  laughter,  and  the  leaves  forbore 
Their  mirthful  dancing,  while  the  rustling  grass 
Sighed,  and  was  silent,  lest  the  song  should  pass. 
The  chords  majestic  swept  the  soul.    Unrest 
Was  stilled  to  peace  in  fevered  hearts  distressed. 

Wearied  of  alien  ears,  and  solitude, 

The  deathless  strain  soared  upwards,  to  the  nude 

And  silvery  sentinel  of  Paradise, 

The  patient  Moon,  that  watches  o'er  the  skies. 

She  turned  the  song  to  tears  of  gentle  rain 

That  washed  the  earth  in  loveliness,  and  Pain 

Which  like  a  cold  and  cruel  snake  lies  curled 

In  the  grim  arms  of  Night,  himself  unfurled 

And  sought  a  refuge  in  the  depths  of  Hell. 

But  even  there,  these  tears  of  Israfel 

Found  the  sad  eyes  of  those  whom  hope  had  fled 

And  as  they  wept,     ...     so  were  they  comforted. 


Albert  E.  S.  Smythe 

Albert  B.  S.  Smythe  iiii;^Iit  be  appropriately  called  'The 
Poet  of  Thcosophy.'  All  his  best  verse  is  tinged  or  infused 
■leith  the  fundautental  beliefs  of  this  all-embracing  religion, 
zehieh,  as  taught  bx  him.  would  harmonise  and  unify  all 
creeds.  lie  is  the  father  of  Theosophy  in  Canada.  As 
a  result  of  his  efforts,  the  Toronto  Theosophical  Society  zcas 
chartered,  and  organiaed,  February  16th,  1891.  He  icas  elected 
the  first  President.  .  .  Let  us  try  to  realize  the  spiritual 
development  of  the  man  who  ':er()te  these  noble  lines: 

7  know  that  the  Master  :eallced  on  earth. 
For  I've  heard  the  tale  of  His  human  birth, 
And  all  that  He  did  would  I  ha-ve  done 
Had  He  been   mortal  and  I  God's  Son.' 

'And  yet.  Soul-sJiiningly.  the  )nist-banks  burn 
With  glory  on  the  hither  side  of  tears. 
The  out-world  phantoms   nevermore   return: 
The  zvorld  zeithin  oifolds  the  years  and  spheres.' 

[347] 


■^^^  Albert  E.  S.  Smvtlie 

AIJ'.ERT  ERXEST  STAFFORD  SMYTHE  was  born 
at  Gracehill.  a  ^Moravian  villag'e,  County  Antrim.  Ireland, 
December  27th.  1861, — son  of  Stafford  Smythe,  whose  patern- 
al t^randfather  had  been  one  of  the  original  settlers  in  the 
villag'e  about  1760.  and  Leonora  Cary,  only  surviving  child 
of  Lucius  Cary,  J.   P..  of  Red   Castle.  County  Donegal. 

He  was  educated  at  local  schools  and  academies,  and  at  the 
South  Kensington  Department  Science  Classes,  where  he  took 
special  prizes  in  geology,  botany  and  physics.  When  a  young 
man  of  eighteen,  he  was  shipwrecked  while  voyaging  to 
New  York,  and  all  his  possessions  lost.  Ten  years  later,  while 
ag'ain  crossing  the  ocean,  he  met  Mary  Adelaide  Constantine, 
of  Lancashire,  and  in  a  few  months  they  were  married. 

Prior  to  returning  to  Ireland  and  re-crossing  in  1889,  he 
had  lived  for  several  years  in  Chicago,  employed  by  a  business 
house.  And  he  can^e  to  Toronto  in  September,  1889,  as  agent 
for  the  Portland  Cement  Company,  and  continued  in  that 
position  for  about  five  years.  During  this  period,  his  chief 
interest,  apart  from  business,  lay  in  the  Theosophical  move- 
ment, of  which  he  was  the  first  representative  in  the  Dominion. 
He  joined  the  American  Section  of  which  William  Quan 
Judg'e  was  then  General  Secretary  and  started  propaganda  in 
Ottawa  and  in  Toronto.  For  several  years  he  edited  and  ])ub- 
lished  The  Lamp  as  a  propaganda  organ. 

Mr.  Smythe  adheres  strictly  to  the  broad  platform  origin- 
ally laid  down,  zvliich  seeks  the  underlying  unity  of  all  reli- 
gions, and  active  cooperation  for  human  welfare  among  all 
zvho  believe  in  the  brotherhood  of  man.  Subsequent  to  i\Ir. 
Judge's  death  in  1906,  Mr.  Smythe's  services  as  a  lecturer 
were  requisitioned  and  while  on  several  tours  in  the  United 
States  he  spoke  in  a  large  number  of  the  most  important  cities. 
His  articles  on  Theosophic  and  other  themes  which  have 
appeared  for  years  in  the  Sunday  World,  under  the  heading, 
'Crusts  and  Crumbs,'  have  been  very  instructive  and  illumin- 
ating; and  these  together  with  his  able  editorials  in  the  daily 
World,  have  long  been  an  impelling  influence  in  Canada. 

In  1912,  Mr.  Smythe,  a  widower  since  1906.  married  the 
eldest  daughter  of  Thomas  Henderson,  of  'The  Park,'  New- 
townstewart,  Ireland.  His  only  son,  by  his  first  marriage,  is 
a  commissioned  officer     ♦;  the  Front. 


Albert  E.  S.  Smythe ^ 

The  Way  of  the  Master 

1KNOW  that  the  Master  walked  on  earth, 
For  I've  heard  the  tale  of  His  human  birth, 
And  all  that  He  did  would  I  have  done 
Had  he  been  mortal  and  I  God's  Son. 

I  know  that  His  heart  was  crushed  and  wrung, 
For  I've  cherished  that  which  has  turned  and  stung ; 
And  He  could  not  help  but  love  us  all 
Though  some  are  held  in  an  evil  tlirall. 

And  I  know  that  His  law  was  Brotherhood, 
And  His  life  was  gentle  and  kind  and  good, 
And  all  that  the  sad  earth  needs  this  hour 
To  bring  men  peace,  is  to  use  that  power. 

I  have  overtaken  many  a  band 

Of  pilgrims  following  Faith's  command. 

And  journeyed  awhile  where  their  prophet   led, 

Then,  passing  on,  found  the  Path  ahead. 

With  the  Master's  guide-marks,  true  and  just. 
And  His  foot-prints  marked  in  the  clay  and  dust, 
But  over-trodden,  effaced  and  blurred. 
By  those  who  followed  some  lesser  Word. 

I  may  pass  them  all  in  the  years,  perchance, 
And  reach  new  realms  of  the  soul's  expanse. 
And  many  may  follow  where  I  have  gone — 
But  the  Master  still  will  be  leading  on. 

For  the  best  I  know  of  His  heart  to-day. 
When  I've  bettered  that,  will  have  sunk  away 
In  the  knowledge  gained  from  my  higher  place 
Of  His  endless  love,  of  His  boundless  grace. 

0  comrade  mine,  we  shall  never  part 
In  the  living  way  of  the  loving  heart, 
Where  the  lust  of  gold  and  the  wanton's  guile 
And  the  cup  of  the  curse  shall  not  defile. 

For  I  know  the  Master  walked  on  earth, 

1  have  heard  the  tale  of  his  human  birth. 
And  all  that  He  did  would  I  have  done 
Had  He  been  mortal  and  I   God's  Son. 


350  Albert  E.  S.  Smythe 


O 


November  Sunshine 

NE  figure  flitting  through  my  dreamland  ways 
Holds  out  dear  hands  and  beckons  me  to  go, 
And  all  the  world  is  sweeter  for  a  phrase 

That  dimly  whispers  when  the  lights  are  low. 

Once,  leaping  through  the  silences  of  snow, 
Far  up  the  heights,  the  sky  all  turned  to  haze, 

A  little  rill,  escaping,  rippled  so: 
Adventured  thus,  my  dreamland  figure  strays. 
Belated  on  the  spray  that  afternoon 

The  red,  unripened  bramble-berries  hung, 
Touched  with  November  sunshine,  fading  soon — 

A  smile,  untimely  bright,  in  mockery  flung; 

A  blackbird,  all  his  summer  anthems  sung. 
Fled  with  a  scream ;  about  our  feet  lay  strewn 

The  leafy  havoc ;  and  my  heart  was  wrung 
To  know,  too  late  for  life,  life's  only  boon. 
They  pass,  these  uninterpretable  years, 

A  weird,  oracular  host,  abrupt  and  stern, 
Interminably  ranked.     Time  domineers, 

Despoiling  us  of  all  the  joys  we  earn ; 

And   yet,    Soul-shiningly,   the   mist-banks   burn 
With  glory  on  the  hither  side  of  tears. 

The  out-world  phantoms  nevermore  return ; 
The  world  within  enfolds  the  years  and  spheres. 

By  Wave  and  War 

ONCE  again  the  ocean  fulness, 
Once  again  the  daring  leap. 
All  my  limbs  o'er-lapped  in  coolness, 

All  my  joy  upon  the  deep — 
Arm  that  urges,   wave   that  surges, 

Foam  that  flies  along  the  flood, 
Over-strive  and  over-conciuer 
All  the  numbness  and  the  nuUness 

In  the  languor  of  my  blood. 
And  I  dash  among  the  breakers,  and  I  overbear  their  rancour 

Till  I  feel  myself  a  man  in  might  and  mood. 
Once  again  the  field  of  glory, 

Once  ag^in  the  battle-shout, 


Albert  E.  S.  Smythe  351 

And  my  shield  is  hacked  and  gory, 

And  the  foe  is  bold  and  stout ; 
There  are   rallies,  there  are   sallies, 

There  is  death  in  every  blow, 
But  the  mood  of  war  grows  godlike, 
And  the  young  men  and  the  hoary 

Charge  with  equal  hearts  aglow, 
Till  a  thrust  has  pierced  their  fury — flung  them  headlong — 
lying  clod-like 

They  are  silent — but  they  triumph  as  they  go! 

Once  again  the  soul's  submergence 

Under  warring  will  and  sense. 
By  the   Law's  almighty  urgence 

And  the  Sun's  bright  vehemence ; 
Plunging,   diving,  onward  striving. 

Through  the  shocks  of  change  and  chance — 
Through  the  coils  of  flesh  and  passion. 
Till  the  love-compelled  convergence 

Towards  the  Heart  of  all  Romance, 
To  the  Throne  of   Him  who  watches  in  the  old  victorious 
fashion 

Comes  a  brother  in  humanity's  advance. 

Anastasis 

WHAT  shall  it  profit  a  man 
To  gain  the  world — if  he  can — 
And  lose  his  soul,  as  they  say 
In  their  uninstructed  way? 

The  whole  of  the  world  in  gain ; 
The  whole  of  your  soul !     Too  vain 
You  judge  yourself  in  the  cost. 
'Tis  you — not  your  soul — is  lost. 

Your  soul!     If  you  only  knew 
You  would  reach  to  the  heaven's  blue, 
To  the  heartmost  centre  sink. 
Ere  you  severed  the  silver  link, 

To  be  lost   in   your  petty   lust 
And  scattered  in  cosmic  dust. 


352  Albert  E.  S.  Smythe 

For  your  soul  is  a  Shining'  Star 
Where  the  Throne  and  the  Angels  are. 
And  after  a  thousand  years 
With  the  salve  of  his  bottled  tears 
Your  soul  shall  gather  again 
From  the  dust  of  a  world  of  pain 

The  frame  of  a  slave  set  free — 
The  man  that  you  ought  to  be, 
The  man  you  may  be  to-night 
If  you  turn  to  the  Valley  of  Light. 

The  Trysting  Path 

DEAR  little  darkened  way  where  we  have  climbed 
How  often  and  again, 
Down  to  the  still,  star-shadowed  haunt  where  chimed 
Uncounted  hours  of  peace  beyond  all  pain ! — 
There  have  we  lain 
And  to  the  leafy  whispers  of  the  wood-world  rhymed 

The  music  of  our  hearts'  refrain : 
Guard  thy  rare  solitude,  and  may  no  sullen  feet 
The  wedded  paces  of  thy  path  profane! 

And  you — so  dear  that  all  things  else  are  dear 

That  enter  your  desire — 
All  that  you  value,  all  that  I  revere 

Transformed  in  our  discourse  (as  in  God's  fire 

The  starry  choir 
With  life  renewed  evolves  fresh  fitness  for  a  higher  sphere,) 

With  quick  interpretings  inspire. 
Deep  inner  knowledge,  and  the  need,  confessed  and  sweet, 

Of  that  Sun-power  which  holds  the  worlds  entire. 

Set  in  blue  darkness,  once,  through  wreathing  boughs. 

We  saw  the  Lord's  own  star, 
And  breast  to  breast  there  sanctified  our  vows 

Before  that  throne  where  all  the  g'lories  are. 

Not  very  far 
From  the  bright  Kingdom  standing  then,  with  radiant  brows, 

And  love's  long  kiss  that  nought  can  mar, 
You  sealed  our  faith,  and  so,  while  lives  unnumbered  fleet, 

As  one,  we  seek  th'  Eternal  Avatar. 


L.  M.  Montgomery 

Those  familiar  ivitli  Miss  Montgomery's  zvork  as  novelist 
are  not  surprised  that  she  has  also  ivritten  a  volume  of  poetry. 
One  zvith  her  joyous  outlook  on  life,  vivid  imagination,  i>i- 
stinct  for  zvords  and  facility  in  expression,  could  not  help 
being  a  poet.  More  than  that,  she  has  lived  nearly  all  her 
life  in  Prince  Edn'ard  Island,  H'here  the  fairies  are  said  to 
live.  In  truth,  Miss  Montgomery  icas  a  poet  long  before  she 
began  to  zvrite  prose;  indeed,  it  is  doubtful  if  she  has  ever 
been  anything  else,  for  A)uie  Shirley  is  cssoitially  a  creature 
of  sentiment,  of  imagination,  and  of  those  qualities  of  heart 
and  brain  zchich  are  the  products  of  the  poetic  mind.  Her 
verse  is  quite  as  perfect  as  her  prose,  though  without  its 
human  touch;  and  her  lyrics,  especially  those  dealing  zvith 
the  s)nili)ig  aspects  of  her  native  prozince.  its  fragrant  fields 
of  red  earth  a)id  the  'blue  sea  coming  up  on  every  side,' 
are  of  rare  quality,  delicate,  lilting  and  full  of  music. 
— E.  J.  Hathaway. 


[353] 


'^•5i  T^.  ]M.  ^lontoomery 

IT  was  in  the  Fall  of  1908  that  the  editor  of  this  volume 
read  .liiite  of  Green  Gables,  by  a  new  author,  L.  M.  Mont- 
gfomery.  The  first  edition  was  just  out.  The  book  provided 
a  fresh  delij:;iit,  for  Anne  had  a  new  and  indescribable  cliann, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  book  must  sell  in  tens  of  thou- 
sands. It  has  sold  in  hundreds  of  thousands,  and  its  immediate 
successor,  Anne  of  .Ivonlea,  1909,  has  had  almost  as  phen- 
omenal a  sale.  Few,  however,  have  known  that  this  brilliant 
portrayer  and  interpreter  of  life  in  her  native  island,  is  a  writer 
of  verse  of  distinctive  quality,  particularly  the  poems  that 
picture  the  sea  and  the  sturdy,  ardent  fisher  folk. 

Lucy  Maud  ^Montgomery  was  born  at  Clifton,  Prince  Ed- 
ward Island,  but  lived  from  her  infancy  in  Cavendish,  of  the 
same  province.  Her  father  was  Hugh  John  Montgomery, 
of  Park  Corner,  P.E.I.,  a  son  of  the  Hon.  Donald  Montgomery, 
'Senator,'  and  her  mother,  Clara  \\'oolner  Macneill,  of  Caven- 
dish, a  great-granddaughter  of  the  Hon.  William  Macneill, 
'Speaker.'  Hector  ]\Iacneill,  the  minor  Scottish  poet,  author 
of  the  popular  lyrics,  T  Lo'ed  Xe'er  a  Laddie  but  Ane,'  'Saw 
Ye  My  Wee  Thing,'  and  'Come  Under  My  Plaidie,'  was  a 
first  cousin  of  her  great-great-grandfather. 

Until  sixteen  years  of  age,  she  attended  the  'district  school' 
in  Cavendish,  and  then  went  to  Prince  of  Wales  College,  Char- 
lottelown,  for  a  year,  taking  the  course  for  a  First-Class  Tea- 
cher's License.  Later,  she  attended  for  one  winter,  Dal- 
housie  College,  Halifax,  taking  special  courses  in  English  and 
in  languages. 

To  supply  the  eager  demand,  six  other  books  have  quickly 
followed  the  first  two:  Kilmeny  of  the  Orchard,  1910;  The 
Story  Girl,  1911:  Chronicles  of  Avonlea.  1912;  The  Golden 
Road,  1913  ;  Anne  of  the  Island,  1915  ;  and  The  Watchman  and 
Other  Poems   (McClelland,  Goodchild  &  Stewart),   1916. 

In  1911,  Miss  Montgomery  was  married  to  the  Rev.  Ewan 
Macdonald,  Presbyterian  Minister  at  Leaskdale,  Ontario,  and 
is  now  the  mother  of  two  boys. 

Shortly  after  Anne  of  Green  Gables  was  pubHshed,  the 
author  received  a  communication  from  the  secretary  of  Mark 
Twain,  telling  her  that  the  latter  had  ,just  sent  a  letter  to 
the  actor,  Francis  Wilson,  in  which  he  said :  Anne  of  Green 
Gables  is  the  szveetest  creation  of  child  life  yet  written. 


L.  M.  Moiitjijoinory  355 

When  the  Dark  Comes  Down 

WHEN  the  dark  comes  down,  oh,  the  wind  is  on  the  sea 
With    Hsping    laugh    and    whimper    to    the    red    reef's 
threnody, 
The  boats  are  saiHng  homeward  now  across  the  harbour  bar 
With  many  a  jest  and  many  a  shout  from  fishing  grounds  afar. 
So  furl  your  sails  and  take  your  rest, 
Ye  fisher  folk  so  brown. 
For  task  and  quest  are  ended  when  the  dark  comes  down. 

When  the  dark  comes  down,  oh,  the  landward  valleys  fill 
Like  brimming  cups  of  purple,  and  on  every  landmark  hill 
There  shines  a  star  of  twilight  that  is  watching  evermore 
The  low,  dim-lighted  meadows  by  the  long,  dim-lighted  shore, 
For  there,   where  vagrant   daisies   weave   the  grass   a   silver 

crown. 
The  lads  and  lassies  wander  when  the  dark  comes  down. 

When  the  dark  comes  down,  oh,  the  children  fall  asleep, 
And  mothers  in  the  fisher  huts  their  happy  vigils  keep ; 
There's  music  in  the  song  they  sing  and  music  on  the  sea. 
The  loving,  lingering  echoes  of  the  twilight's  litany, 
For  toil  has  folded  hands  to  dream,  and  care  has  ceased  to 

frown, 
And  every  one's  a  lyric  when  the  dark  comes  down. 

Sunrise  Along  Shore 

ATHWART   the   harbour   ling'ers   yet 
The  ashen  gleam  of  breaking  day, 
And   where  the  guardian   cliffs   are   set 
The  noiseless  shadows  steal  away ; 
But  all  the  winnowed  eastern  sky 
Is  flushed  with  many  a  tender  hue. 
And  spears  of  light  are  smiting  through 
The  ranks  where  huddled  sea-mists  fly. 

Across  the  ocean,  wan  and  gray. 

Gay  fleets  of  golden  ripples  come, 

For  at  the  birth  hour  of  the  day 

The  roistering,  wayward  winds  are  dumb. 


356  L.  M.  Montgomery 

The  rocks  that  stretch  to  meet  the  tide 
Are  smitten  with  a  ruddy  glow, 
And  faint  reflections  come  and  go 
Where  fishing  boats  at  anchor  ride. 

All  life  leaps  oiit  to  greet  the  light — 
The  shining  sea-gulls  dive  and  soar, 
The   swallows   wheel   in   dizzy  flight, 
And  sandpeeps  flit  along  the  shore. 
From   every  purple   landward   hill 
The  banners  of  the  morning  fly, 
But  on  the  headlands,  dim  and  high. 
The  fishing  hamlets  slumber  still. 

One  boat  alone  beyond  the  bar 
Is  sailing  outward  blithe  and  free. 
To  carry  sturdy  hearts  afar 
Across  those  wastes  of  sparkling  sea. 
Staunchly  to  seek  what  may  be  won 
From  out  the  treasures  of  the  deep, 
To  toil  for  those  at  home  who  sleep 
And  be  the  first  to  greet  the  sun. 

Off  to  the  Fishing  Ground 

THERE'S  a  piping  wind  from  a  sunrise  shore 
Blowing  over  a  silver  sea, 
There's  a  joyous  voice  in  the  lapsing  tide 
That  calls  enticingly ; 
The  mist  of  dawn  has  taken  flight 
To   the   dim   horizon's   bound, 
And  with  wide  sails  set  and  eager  hearts 
We're  off  to  the  fishing  ground. 

Ho,  comrades  mine,  how  that  brave  wind  sings 

Like  a  great  sea-harp  afar ! 

We  whistle  its  wild  notes  back  to  it 

As  we  cross  the  harbour  bar. 

Behind  us  there  are  the  homes  we  love 

And  hearts  that  are  fond  and  true, 

And  before  us  beckons  a  strong  young  day 

On  leagues  of  glorious  blue. 


L.  M.  Montgomery 


357 


Comrades,  a  M>ng  as  the  fleet  goes  out, 

A  song  of  the  orient  sea, 

We  are  the  heirs  of  its  tinghng  strife, 

Its  courage  and  liberty ! 

Sing  as  the  white  sails  cream  and  fill, 

And  the  foam  in  our  wake  is  long, 

Sing  till  the  headlands  black   and   grim 

Echo  us  back  our  song! 

Oh,  'tis  a  glad  and  heartsome  thing 

To  wake   ere   the   night  be   done 

And  steer  the  course  that  our  fathers  steered 

In  the  path  of  the  rising  sun. 

The  wind  and  welkin  and  wave  are  ours 

Wherever  our  bourne  is  found. 

And  we  envy  no  landsman  his  dream  and  sleep 

When  we're  off  to  the  fishing  ground! 

The  Old  Man's  Grave 

MAKE  it  where  the  winds  may  sweep 
Through   the   pine   boughs   soft   and   deep, 
And  the  murmur  of  the  sea 
Come  across  the  orieni  lea, 
And    the    falling    raindrops    sing 
Gently  to  his  slumbering. 

Make  it  where  the  meadows  wide 
Greenly  lie  on  every  side. 
Harvest   fields  he  reaped  and  trod, 
Westering  slopes  of  clover  sod. 
Orchard  lands  where  bloom  and  blow 
Trees  he  planted  long  ago. 

Make  it  where  the  starshine  dim 
May  be  always  close  to  him. 
And  the   sunrise   glory   spread 
Lavishly   around   his  bed. 
And  the  dewy  grasses  creep 
Tenderly  above  his  sleep. 


358  L.  M.  Montgomery 

Since  these  things  to  him  were  dear 
Through  full  many  a  well-spent  year, 
It  is  surely  meet  their  grace 
Should  be  on  his  resting-place, 
And  the  murmur  of  the  sea 
Be  his  dirge  eternally. 

The  Old  Home  Calls 

COME  back  to  me,  little  dancing  feet  that  roam  the  wide 
world  o'er, 
I  long  for  the  lilt  of  your  flying  steps  in  my  silent  rooms  once 

more; 
Come  back  to  me,  little  voices  gay  with  laughter  and  with  song, 
Come   back,    little   hearts   beating   high    with   hopes,    I    have 
missed   and   mourned   you   long. 

My  roses  bloom  in  my  garden  walks  all  sweet  and  wet  with 
the  dew, 

My  lights  shine  down  on  the  long  hill  road  the  waning  twi- 
lights through, 

The  swallows  flutter  about  my  eaves  as  in  the  years  of  old. 

And  close  about  me  their  steadfast  arms  the  lisping  pine  trees 
fold. 

But  I  weary  for  you  at  morn  and  eve,  O  children  of  my  love, 

Come  back  to  me  from  your  pilgrim  ways,  from  the  seas  and 
plains  ye  rove. 

Come  over  the  meadows  and  up  the  lane  to  my  door  set  open 
wide. 

And  sit  ye  down  where  the  red  light  shines  from  my  welcom- 
ing fire-side. 

I  keep  for  you  all  your  childhood  dreams,  your  gladness  and 

delights. 
The  joy  of  days  in  the  sun  and  rain,  the  sleep  of  care-free 

nights ; 
All  the  sweet  faiths  ye  have  lost  and  sought  again  shall  be 

your  own, 
Darlings,  come  to  my  empty  heart — I  am  old  and  still  and 

alone ! 


Robert  W.  Service 

The  reason  of  the  popularity  of  this  poetry  may  be  summed 
up  almost  in  a  z^'ord — it  pietures  human  life,  for,  after  all. 
nature  zcorship  or  classic  lore,  ethics  or  abstruse  philosophy, 
grozv  stale  and  flat  ivhen  used  continually  as  the  basis  of  liter- 
ary emotio)is,  but  every  Juiman  being,  zvho  has  not  become  a 
convoitionalized  fossil,  ahvays  innll  be  moved  by  the  passions 
and   moods   of   the  surging,   restless,   primitive,    even   animal 

spirit  of  hunuviity  that  per)neates  Service's  poems 

These  poems  must  not  be  regarded  as  typically  Canadian — 
thex  crystallize  a  phase  of  Canadian  life,  but  it  is  a  phase 
7i7;/(7;  has  become  Canadian  by  accident  of  ciriui)ista)ices. 
.  .  .  .  'The  rliythm  of  the  poems  has  an  irresistible  siveep; 
no  training  in  the  technique  of  zrrsiflcation  is  necessary  to 
catch  the  )noz'e))ient — it  carries  one  az\.'ay:  and  the  plain,  for- 
cible language  grips  the  attention  and  holds  it,  zchile  short, 
vivid,  insistent  epithets  Jiammer  themselves  deeply  into  one's 
mind. — Donald  (t.  P'rhncii,  in  the  '01ol)e  Ma^'aziiic' 


[359] 


360  Robert  W.  Service 

ROBERT  W.  SERVICE  is  not  a  Canadian  poet  in  the 
truest  sense  of  the  term.  He  was  not  born  in  Canada, 
nor  did  he  arrive  in  this  land  in  early  childhood  and  grow 
up  in  a  Canadian  environment.  He  was  born  in  Lancashire, 
England,  in  1876,  and  when  six  years  of  age  moved  to 
Scotland  with  his  parents.  He  was  educated  in  the  city  of 
Glasgow,  his  higher  education  being  received  in  the  Hillhead 
High  School,  and  in  the  University  of  Glasgow. 

At  the  age  of  twenty,  Mr.  Service  came  to  Canada  and  made 
his  way  westward  from  city  to  city,  until  he  arrived  at  Victor- 
ia, B.C.  The  next  five  years  he  wandered  back  and  forth  on 
the  Pacific  coast,  travelling  as  far  south  as  Mexico,  residing 
temporarily  in  every  city  of  importance,  and  learning  by  hard, 
personal  experience,  some  of  the  deepest  lessons  of  life. 

Finally  he  became  a  clerk  in  the  Canadian  Bank  of  Com- 
merce at  A'ictoria,  and  subsequently  was  stationed  at  other 
branches  in  Vancouver,  Kamloops,  and  White  Horse  in  the 
Yukon  District. 

It  was  in  White  Horse  that  most  of  the  poems  published  in 
Songs  of  a  Sourdough  were  written.  This  volume  appeared 
in  1907  and  in  a  few  weeks  the  author  was  famous.  For 
Canadian  poetry  the  sales  were  unprecedented,  expanding  in 
number  in  a  few  months  into  the  tens  of  thousands. 

The  same  author  has  given  us  since,  Ballads  of  a  Checchako, 
1909;  The  Trail  of  '98,  a  novel,  1910;  Rhymes  of  a  Rolling 
Stone,  1912 :  and  The  Pretender,  a  novel,  1914. 

The  Montreal  Witness  dubbed  Service  'The  Kipling  of  the 
Arctic  World,'  and  it  was  soon  discovered  that  Kipling  was 
his  favourite  author.     Said  he : 

Kipling  comes  first  with  me.  He  is  the  greatest  of  modern  writers 
to  my  mind.  In  the  poem,  'The  Law  of  the  Yukon.'  they  say  I've  had 
in  mind  his  'Red  Gods.'  I  only  wish  I  could  write  in  his  class.  Of 
course,  there  is  the  Kipling  idea,  the  Kipling  method  in  his  poem, 
and  it's  a  jolly  good  method. 

But  as  Mr.  French  also  says : 

Service  is  no  mere  imitator;  his  themes  are  his  own,  and  poetic 
form  in  any  case  is  governed  largely  by  the  subject  matter.  Even 
Kipling  did  not  invent  the  ballad  forms — he  used  what  he  found. 

Service  has  also  made  the  following  interesting  references 

to  his  poems : 

I    don't    believe    in    pretty    language    and    verbal    felicities,    but    in 


Robert  W.  Service  361 

getting  as  close  down  as  I  can  to  the  primal  facts  of  life, — getting  down 

to    the    bedrock    of    things My    idea    of    verse    writing^  is 

to  write  something  the  everyday  workingman  can  read  and  approve,  the 
man  who,  as  a  rule,  fights  shy  of  verse  or  rhyme.  I  prefer  to  write 
something  that  comes  within  the  scope  of  his  own  experience  and 
grips  him  with  a  sense  of   reality. 

In  recent  years,  Service  has  dwelt  in  Europe — most  of  the 
time  in  Paris.  He  was  engaged  in  the  second  war  of  the 
Balkans,  as  a  correspondent,  and  shortly  after  his  return 
married  a  French  girl,  whom  he  met  in  a  romantic  way.  He 
is  now  "doing  his  bit"  in  the  Great  War  by  driving  a  motor 
ambulance,  and  by  the  contribution  of  gripping  ballads. 

The  Call  of  the  Wild 

HAVE  you  gazed  on  naked  grandeur  where  there's  nothing 
else  to  gaze  on, 
Set  pieces  and  drop-curtain  scenes  galore. 
Big  mountains  heaved  to  heaven,  which  the  blinding  sunsets 
blazon. 
Black  canyons  where  the  rapids  rip  and  roar? 
Have  you  swept  the  visioned  valley  with  the  green  stream 
streaking  through  it. 
Searched  the  Vastness  for  a  something  you  have  lost? 
Have  you  strung  your  soul  to  silence?    Then  for  God's  sake 
go  and  do  it; 
Hear  the  challenge,  learn  the  lesson,  pay  the  cost. 

Have  you  wandered  in  the  wilderness,  the  sage-brush  desola- 
tion. 
The  bunch-grass  levels  where  the  cattle  graze? 
Have  you  whistled  bits  of  rag-time  at  the  end  of  all  creation. 

And  learned  to  know  the  desert's  little  ways? 
Have  you  camped  upon  the  foothills,  have  you  galloped  o'er 
the  ranges, 
Have  you  roamed  the  arid  sun-lands  through  and  through? 
Have  you  chummed  up  with  the  mesa?     Do  you  know  its 
moods  and  changes? 
Then  listen  to  the  wild — it's  calling  you. 

Have  you  known  the  Great  White  Silence,  not  a  snow-gemmed 
twig  aquiver? 
(Eternal  truths  that  shame  our  soothing  lies.) 


362  Kobert  W.  Service 

Have  you  broken  trail  on  snowshoes?  mushed  your  huskies 
up  the  river, 
Dared  the  unknown,  led  the  way,  and  clutched  the  prize? 
Have  you  marked  the  map's  void  spaces,  mingled  with  the 
mongrel  races, 
Felt  the  savage  strength  of  brute  in  every  thew  ? 
And  though  grim  as  hell  the  worst  is,  can  you  round  it  off 
with  curses? 
Then  hearken  to  the  wild — it's  wanting  you. 

Have  you  suffered,  starved  and  triumphed,  grovelled  down, 
yet  grasped  at  glory, 
Grown  bigger  in  the  bigness  of  the  whole? 
'Done  things'  just  for  the  doing,  letting  babblers  tell  the  story, 

Seeing  through  the  nice  veneer  the  naked  soul? 
Have  you  seen  God  in  His  splendours,  heard  the  text  that 
nature  renders? 
(You'll  never  hear  it  in  the  family  pew.) 
The  simple  things,  the  true  things,  the  silent  men  who  do 
things — 
Then  listen  to  the  wild — it's  calling  you. 

They  have  cradled  you  in  custom,  they  have  primed  you  with 
their  preaching. 
They  have  soaked  you  in  convention  through  and  through; 
They  have  put  you  in  a  showcase;  you're  a  credit  to  their 
teaching — 
But  can't  you  hear  the  wild? — it's  calling  you. 
Let  us  probe  the  silent  places,  let  us  seek  what  luck  betide  us ; 

Let  us  journey  to  a  lonely  land  I  know. 
There's  a  whisper  on  the  night-wind,  there's  a  star  agleam  to 
guide  us. 
And  the  wild  is  calling,  calling     .     .     .     .     let  us  go. 

The  Law  of  the  Yukon 

THIS  is  the  law  of  the  Yukon,  and  ever  she  makes  it  plain : 
'Send  not  your  foolish  and  feeble ;  send  me  your  strong 
and  your  sane 
Strong  for  the  red  rage  of  battle ;  sane,  for  I  harry  them  sore ; 
Send  me  men  girt  for  the  combat,  men  who  are  grit  to  the 
core; 


Robert  W.  Service  363 

Swift  as  the  panther  in  triumph,  fierce  as  the  bear  in  defeat, 
Sired  of  a  bulldog  parent,  steeled  in  the  furnace  heat. 
Send  me  the  best  of  your  breeding,  lend  me  your  chosen  ones ; 
Them  will  I  take  to  my  bosom,  them  will  I  call  my  sons ; 
Them  will  I  gild  with  my  treasure,  them  will  I  glut  with  my 

meat ; 
But  the  others — the  misfits,  the  failures — I  trample  under  my 

feet. 
Dissolute,   damned   and   despairful,   crippled   and  palsied   and 

slain, 
Ye  would  send  me  the  spawn  of  your  gutters — Go !  take  back 

your  spawn  again. 

'Wild  and  wide  are  my  borders,  stern  as  death  is  my  sway ; 

From  my  ruthless  throne  I  have  ruled  alone  for  a  million  years 
and  a  day; 

Hugging  my  mighty  treasure,  waiting  for  man  to  come: 

Till  he  swept  like  a  turbid  torrent,  and  after  him  swept — the 
scum. 

The  pallid  pimp  of  the  dead-line,  the  enervate  of  the  pen, 

One  by  one  I  weeded  them  out,  for  all  that  I  sought  was — Men. 

One  by  one  I  dismayed  them,  frighting  them  sore  with  my 
glooms ; 

One  by  one  I  betrayed  them  unto  my  manifold  dooms. 

Drowned  them  like  rats  in  my  rivers,  starved  them  like  curs 
on  my  plains, 

Rotted  the  flesh  that  was  left  them,  poisoned  the  blood  in  their 
veins ; 

Burst  with  my  winter  upon  them,  searing  forever  their  sight, 

Lashed  them   with   fungus-white   faces,   whimpering  wild  in 
the   night ; 

Staggering   blind    through    the    storm-whirl,    stumblings   mad 
through  the  snow. 

Frozen  stiff  in  the  ice  pack,  brittle  and  bent  like  a  bow ; 

Featureless,    formless,    forsaken,   scented   by   wolves   in   their 
flight, 

Left  for  the  wind  to  make  music  through  ribs  that  are  glit- 
tering white ; 

Gnawing  the  black  crust  of  failure,  searching  the  pit  of  des- 
pair, 
19 


364  Robert  W.  Service 


Crooking  the  toe  in  the  trigger,  trying  to  patter  a  prayer; 
Going  outside   with  an   escort,   raving  with   lips   all   afoam; 
Writing  a  cheque  for  a  million,  drivelling  feebly  of  home; 
Lost  like  a  louse  in  the  burning     ....     or  else  in  the 

tented  town 
Seeking  a  drunkard's  solace,  sinking  and  sinking  down; 
Steeped  in  the  slime  at  the  bottom,  dead  to  a  decent  world, 
Lost  'mid  the  human  flotsam,  far  on  the  frontier  hurled ; 
In  the  camp  at  the  bend  of  the  river,  with  its  dozen  saloons 

aglare. 
Its  gambling  dens  a-riot,  its  gramophones  all  ablare ; 
Crimped  with  the  crimes  of  a  city,  sin-ridden  and  bridled  with 

lies, 
In  the  hush  of  my  mountained  vastness,  in  the  flush  of  my 

midnight  skies. 
Plague-spots,  yet  tools  of  my  purpose,  so  natheless  I  suffer 

them  thrive. 
Crushing  my  Weak  in  their  clutches,  that  only  my  Strong  may 

survive. 

'But  the  others,  the  men  of  my  mettle,  the  men  who  would 

'stablish  my  fame. 
Unto  its  ultimate  issue,  winning  me  honour,  not  shame ; 
Searching  my  uttermost  valleys,  fighting  each  step  as  they  go. 
Shooting  the   wrath  of  my  rapids,   sealing  my   ramparts  of 

snow ; 
Ripping  the  guts  of  my  mountains,  looting  the  beds  of  my 

creeks. 
Them  will  I  take  to  my  bosom,  and  speak  as  a  mother  speaks. 
I  am  the  land  that  listens,  I  am  the  land  that  broods; 
Steeped  in  eternal  beauty,  crystalline  waters  and  woods. 
Long  have  I  waited  lonely,  shunned  as  a  thing  accurst, 
Monstrous,  moody,  pathetic,  the  last  of  the  lands  and  the  first ; 
Visioning  camp-fires  at  twilight,  sad  with  a  longing  forlorn. 
Feeling  my  womb  o'er-pregnant  with  the  seed  of  cities  unborn. 
Wild  and  wide  are  my  borders,  stern  as  death  is  my  sway, 
And  I  wait  for  the  men  who  will  win  me — and  I  will  not  be 

won  in  a  day; 
And  I  will  not  be  won  by  weaklings,  subtile,  suave  and  mild. 


Robert  W.  Service  365 

But  by  men  with  the  hearts  of  vikings  and  the  simple  faith  of  a 

child ; 
Desperate,  strong  and  resistless,  unthrottled  by  fear  or  defeat, 
Them  will  I  gild  with  my  treasure,  them  will  I  glut  with  my 

meat. 

'Lofty  I  stand  from  each  sister  land,  patient  and  wearily  wise, 
With  the  weight  of  a  world  of  sadness  in  my  quiet,  passionless 

eyes ; 
Dreaming  alone  of  a  people,  dreaming  alone  of  a  day. 
When  men  shall  not  rape  my  riches,  and  curse  me  and  go 

away ; 
Making  a  bawd  of  my  bounty,  fouling  the  hand  that  gave — 
Till  I  rise  in  my  wrath  and  I  sweep  on  their  path  and  I  stamp 

them  into  a  grave. 
Dreaming  of  men  who  will  bless  me,  of  women  esteeming  me 

good. 
Of  children  born  in  my  borders,  of  radiant  motherhood. 
Of  cities  leaping  to  stature,  of  fame  like  a  flag  unfurled. 
As  I  pour  the  tide  of  my  riches  in  the  eager  lap  of  the  world.' 

This  is  the  Law  of  the  Yukon,  that  only  the  Strong  shall 

thrive : 
That  surely  the  Weak  shall  perish,  and  only  the  Fit  survive ; 
Dissolute,   damned  and  despairful,  crippled  and  palsied  and 

slain. 
This  is  the  Will  of  the  Yukon, — Lo!  how  she  makes  it  plain! 

The  Cremation  of  Sam  McGee 

rHERE  arc  strange  things  done  in  the  midnight  sun 
By  the  men  who  moil  for  gold; 
The  Arctic  trails  have  their  secret  tales 

That  would  make  your  blood  run  cold; 
The  Northern  Lights  have  seen  queer  sights. 

But  the  queerest  they  ever  did  see 
Was  that  night  on  the  marge  of  Lake  Lebarge 
I  cremated  Sam  McGee. 

Now    Sam    McGee    was    from   Tennessee,    where    the    cotton 
blooms  and  blows. 


366  Robert  W.  Service 


Why  he  left  his  home  in  the  South  to  roam  round  the  Pole 

God  only  knows. 
He  was  always  cold,  but  the  land  of  gold  seemed  to  hold  him 

like  a  spell; 
Though  he'd  often  say  in  his  homely  way  that  'he'd  sooner 

live  in  hell.' 

On  a  Christmas  Day   we   were  mushing  our   way  over  the 

Dawson  trail. 
Talk  of  your  cold!  through  the  parka's  fold  it  stabbed  like  a 

driven  nail. 
If  our  eyes  we'd  close,  then  the  lashes  froze,  till  sometimes 

we  couldn't  see; 
It  wasn't  much  fun,  but  the  only  one  to  whimper  was  Sam 

McGee. 

And  that  very  night  as  we  lay  packed  tight  in  our  robes  be- 
neath the  snow, 

And  the  dogs  were  fed,  and  the  stars  o'erhead  were  dancing 
heel  and  toe, 

He  turned  to  me,  and,  'Cap,'  says  he,  'I'll  cash  in  this  trip, 
I  guess ; 

And  if  I  do,  I'm  asking  that  you  won't  refuse  my  last  re- 
quest.' 

Well,  he  seemed  so  low  that  I  couldn't  say  no;  then  he  says 

with  a  sort  of  moan: 
'It's  the  cursed  cold,  and  it's  got  right  hold  till  I'm  chilled 

clean  through  to  the  bone. 
Yet  'taint  being  dead,  it's  my  awful  dread  of  the  icy  grave  that 

pains ; 
So  I  want  you  to  swear  that,  foul  or  fair,  you'll  cremate  my 

last  remains.' 

A  pal's  last  need  is  a  thing  to  heed,  so  I  swore  I  would  not 

fail; 
And  we  started  on  at  the  streak  of  dawn,  but  God !  he  looked 

ghastly  pale. 
He  crouched  on  the  sleigh,  and  he  raved  all  day  of  his  home 

in  Tennessee; 


Robert  W.  Service  •^^' 

And  before  nightfall  a  corpse  was  all  that  was  left  of  Sam 
McGee. 

There  wasn't  a  breath  in  that  land  of  death,  and  I  hurried, 

horror  driven, 
With  a  corpse  half-hid  that  I  couldn't  get  rid,  because  of  a 

promise  given ; 
It  was  lashed  to  the  sleigh,  and  it  seemed  to  say :  'You  may 

tax  your  brawn  and  brains, 
But  you  promised  true,  and  it's  up  to  you  to  cremate  those 

last  remains.' 

Now  a  promise  made  is  a  debt  unpaid,  and  the  trail  has  its 

own  stern  code. 
In  the  days  to  come,  though  my  lips  were  dumb,  in  my  heart 

how  I  cursed  that  load. 
In  the  long,  long  night,  by  the  lone  fire-light,  while  the  huskies, 

round  in  a  ring, 
Howled  out  their  woes  to  the  homeless  snows — O  God,  how 

I  loathed  that  thing! 

And  every  day  that  quiet  clay  seemed  to  heavy  and  heavier 

grow; 
And  on  I  went,  though  the  dogs  were  spent  and  the  grub  was 

getting  low; 
The  trail  was  bad,  and  I  felt  half  mad,  but  I  swore  I  would  not 

give  in ; 
And  I'd  often  sing  to  the  hateful  thing,  and  it  hearkened  with 

a  grin. 

Till  I  came  to  the  marge  of   Lake  Lebarge,  and  a  derelict 

there  lay ; 
It  was  jammed  in  the  ice,  but  I  saw  in  a  trice  it  was  called  the 

'Alice  May.' 
And  I  looked  at  it.  and  I  thought  a  bit,  and  I  looked  at  my 

frozen  chum : 
Then,  'Here,'  said  I,  with  a  ^udden  cry,  'is  my  cre-ma-tor-eum.' 

Some  planks  I  tore  from  the  cabin  floor,  and  I  lit  the  boiler  fire ; 
Some  coal  I  found  that  was  lying  around,  and  I  heaped  the 
fuel  higher ; 


368  Kobert  W.  Service 

The  flames  just  soared,  and  the  furnace  roared — such  a  blaze 

you  seldom  see ; 
And  I  burrowed  a  hole  in  the  glowing  coal,  and  I  stuflfed  in 

Sam  McGee. 

Then  I  made  a  hike,  for  I  couldn't  like  to  hear  him  sizzle  so ; 
And  the  heavens  scowled,  and  the  huskies  howled,  and  the 

wind  began  to  blow. 
It  was  icy  cold,  but  the  hot  sweat  rolled  down  my  cheeks,  and 

I  don't  know  why; 
And  the  greasy  smoke  in  an  inky  cloak  went  streaking  down 

the  sky. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  in  the  snow  I  wrestled  with  grisly 

fear; 
But  the  stars  came  out  and  they  danced  about  ere  again  I 

ventured  near ; 
I  was  sick  with  dread,  but  I  bravely  said :  'I'll  just  take  a  peep 

inside. 
I  guess  he's  cooked,  and  it's  time  I  looked.'     ....     then 

the  door  I  opened  wide. 

And  there  sat  Sam,  looking  cool  and  calm,  in  the  heart  of  the 

furnace  roar ; 
And  he  wore  a  smile  you  could  see  a  mile,  and  he  said :  'Please 

close  that  door. 
It's  fine  in  here,  but  I  greatly  fear  you'll  let  in  the  cold  and 

storm — 
Since  I  left  Plumtree,  down  in  Tennessee,  it's  the  first  time 

I've  been  warm.' 

There  are  strange  things  done  in  the  midnight  sun 

By  the  men  who  moil  for  gold; 
The  Arctic  trails  have  their  secret  tales 

That  would  make  your  blood  run  cold; 
The  Northern  Lights  have  seen  queer  sights, 

But  the  queerest  they  ever  did  see 
Was  that  night  on  the  marge  of  Lake  Leharge 

I  cremated  Sam  McGee. 


Robert  W.  Service  369 


The  Lure  of  Little  Voices 

THERE'S  a  cry  from  out  the  Loneliness — oh,  Hsten,  Honey, 
listen ! 
Do  you  hear  it,  do  you  fear  it,  you're  a-holding  of  me  so? 
You're  a  sobbing-  in  your  sleep,  dear,  and  your  lashes,  how 
they  glisten ! 
Do  you  hear  the  Little  Voices  all  a-begging  me  to  go  ? 

All  a-begging  me  to  leave  you.     Day  and  night  they're  plead- 
ing, praying. 
On  the  North-wind,  on  the  West-wind,  from  the  peak  and 
from  the  plain ; 
Night  and  day  they  never  leave  me — do  you  know  what  they 
are  saying? 
'He  was  ours  before  you  got  him,  and  we  want  him  once 
again.' 

Yes,  they're  wanting  me,  they're  haunting  me,  the  awful  lonely 
places ; 
They're  whining  and  they're  whimpering  as  if  each  had  a 
soul; 
They're   calling   from   the   wilderness,   the   vast   and   godlike 
spaces, 
The  stark  and  sullen  solitudes  that  sentinel  the  Pole. 

They  miss  my  little  camp-fires,  ever  brightly,  bravely  gleaming 
In  the  w^omb  of  desolation  where  was  never  man  before ; 

As  comradeless  I  sought  them,  lion-hearted,  loving,  dreaming; 
And  they  hailed  me  as  a  comrade,  and  they  loved  me  ever- 
more. 

And  now  they're  all  a-crying,  and  it's  no  use  me  denying; 

The  spell  of  them  is  on  me  and  I'm  helpless  as  a  child ; 
My  heart  is  asking,  aching,  but  I  hear  them  sleeping,  waking ; 

It's  the  lure  of  Little  Voices,  it's  the  mandate  of  the  wild. 

I'm  afraid  to  tell  you,  Honey,  I  can  take  no  bitter  leaving; 

But  softly  in  the  sleep-time  from  your  love  I'll  steal  away. 
Oh,  it's  cruel,  dearie,  cruel,  and  it's  God  know's  how  I'm  griev- 
ing! 

But  His  Loneliness  is  calling  and  He  knows  I  must  obey. 


370  Robert  W.  Ser^dce 

Little  Moccasins 

COME  out,  O  Little  Moccasins,  and  frolic  on  the  snow! 
Come  out,  O  tiny  beaded  feet,  and  twinkle  in  the  light! 
I'll  play  the  old  Red  River  reel,  you  used  to  love  it  so: 
Awake,  O  Little  Moccasins,  and  dance  for  me  to-night! 

Your  hair  was  all  a  gleamy  gold,  your  eyes  a  cornflower  blue ; 
Your  cheeks  were  pink  as  tinted  shells,  you  stepped  light  as 
a  fawn ; 
Your  mouth  was  like  a  coral  bud,  with  seed  pearls  peeping 
through ; 
As  gladdening  as  Spring  you  were,  as  radiant  as  dawn. 

Come  out,  O  Little  Moccasins!    I'll  play  so  soft  and  low, 
The  songs  you  loved,  the  old  heart-songs  that  in  my  mem'ry 
ring; 

0  child,  I  want  to  hear  you  now  beside  the  camp-fire  glow. 
With  all  your  heart  a-throbbing  in  the  simple  words  you 

sing ! 

For  there  were  only  you  and  I,  and  you  were  all  to  me; 

And  round  us  were  the  barren  lands,  but  little  did  we  fear ; 
Of  all  God's  happy,  happy  folks  the  happiest  were  we.     .     .     . 

(Oh,  call  her,  poor  old  fiddle  mine,  and  maybe  she  will 
hear!) 

Your  mother  was  a  half-breed  Cree,  but  you  were  white  all 
through ; 
And  I  your  father  was — but,  well,  that's  neither  here  nor 
there ; 

1  only  know,  my  little  Queen,  that  all  my  world  was  you. 
And  now  that  world  can  end  to-night,  and  I  will  never  care. 

For  there's  a  tiny  wooden  cross  that  pricks  up  through  the 
snow : 
(Poor  Little  Moccasins!  you're  tired,  and  so  you  lie  at  rest.) 
And  there's  a  grey-haired,   weary  man  beside  the  camp-fire 
glow : 
(O  fiddle  mine!  the  tears  to-night  are  drumming  on  your 
breast.) 


Florence  Randal  Livesay 

(Kihnenyj 

We  ought  to  be  proud  that  the  foreign  folk  among  us 
have  found  a  sympathetic  -i'oice  singing  in  our  language 
the  songs  of  their  fatherland.  Mrs.  Liirsay  composes  as 
easily  as  IVilliatn  Morris.  She  has  the  lyric  gift,  and  she  has 
the  feeling  for  these  people  that  gives  her  verse  vitality.     .     . 

Her  verses  have  the  singing  cjuality  and  the  true  feeling. 
.     .     .     .     hi  her  translations  Mrs.  Lii'csay  has  certainly  en- 
tered into  the  spirit  of  the  original,  reproducing  the  passion, 
the    patriotism,    and    the    :rry    song    itself.     .....     'The 

You)ig  Recruits'  is  a  goiuine  dramatic  lyric.     Read  it  tn'ice 
and  you  icill  read  it  three  times 

She  has  surely  captured  throughout  the  )tuinher  and  z'ariety 
of  her  translations, — loz'e-songs,  "^'ar  cries,  heart-break,  dance 
— the  peculiar  wit  and  wisdom  of  the  Ukrainian  nation,  the 
tzcist  of  the  national  temperament.  She  has  gii-en  to  them 
again  their  claiin  to  poetry.  a>id  has  retained  'the  tang  of  race.' 
— Tlie   l')0(tknian,  in  tlu'  'Manitol)a  I'reo  Tress." 

[■Ml] 


Florence  "Randal  LivesaA^ 


FLOREX'CE  RANDAL  LIVESAY.  daug'hter  of  Stephen 
and  Mary  Louisa  Randal,  was  born  at  Compton,  P.Q.,  and 
educated  at  Compton  Ladies'  College,  now  King's  Hall.  She 
taught  for  one  year  in  a  private  school  in  New  York,  and 
subsequently  for  seven  years  was  a  member  of  the  staff  of 
the  Evening  Journal  Ottawa, — editor  of  the  Woman's  Page. 

In  1902,  the  Hon.  Joseph  Chamberlain  requested  Canada  to 
send  some  teachers  to  the  Boer  Concentration  Camps,  and 
Miss  Randal,  offering  her  services,  was  one  of  the  forty  chosen. 
She  remained  for  one  year  and  then  returned  to  Canada,  locat- 
ing at  Winnipeg.  She  joined  the  staff  of  the  Winnipeg  Tele- 
gram, and  three  years  later,  that  of  the  Manitoba  Free  Press. 
For  several  years  she  edited  the  Children's  Department  of  the 
latter,  but  now  writes  as  a  'free  lance,' 

In  1908,  she  married  Mr.  J.  Fred.  B.  Livesay,  of  Winnipeg, 
Manager  and  Secretary  of  the  Western  Associated  Press, 
Limited,  and  is  now  the  mother  of  two  girls. 

Of  recent  years,  Mrs.  Livesay  has  contributed  poems,  short 
stories  and  articles  to  Canadian  and  American  magazines  and 
journals,  and  a  volume  of  her  verse,  entitled  Songs  of 
Ukraina,  is  now  being  published  by  J.  M.  Dent  &  Sons. 

Mrs.  Livesay 's  folk  songs  translated  from  the  Ruthenian 
are  unusual  and  notable,  but  her  poetical  gift  is  quite  as  dis- 
cernible in  her  other  poems.  She  has  the  imagination  and 
the  practised  touch  of  the  artist. 

Immortality 

I   DIED  once,  but  I  came  to  life 
With  pain  that  stabbed  me  like  a  knife ; 

And  once  again  I  know  1  died — 
Afraid !     And  yet  that  shell  flew  wide. 


A   singing   bullet   cut   the   air; 

I  said  a  catch  of  a  childish  prayer- 

'If  I  should  die  before  I  wake 
1  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take. 

'Before   I   wake — ' 


Florence  Randal  Livesay  ^'i^ 

The  Young  Recruits 

(Cossack  Song) 

ALONG  the  hills  lies  the  snow. 
But  the  streams  they  melt  and  flow ; 
By  the  road  the  poppies  blow — 
Poppies?     Nay,  scarlet  though  they  glow, 
These  are  no  flowers — the  young  recruits ! 
They  are  the  young  recruits! 

To  Krym,  to  Krym  they  ride. 
The  soldiers,  side  by  side — 
And  over  the  country  wide 
Sounds  the  beat  of  the  horse's  stride. 

One  calls  to  her  soldier  son : 
'Return,  O  careless  one ! 
Of  scrubbing  wilt  have  none? 
Let  me  wash  thy  head — then  run !' 

'Nay,  mother,  wash  thine  own, 
Or  make  my  sister  groan. 
Leave  thou  thy  son  alone! 
Too  swift  the  time  has  flown. 

'My  head  the  fine  spring  rain 
Will  soon  wash  clean  again. 
And  stout  thorns  will  be  fain 
To  comb  what  rough  has  lain. 

'The  sun  will  make  it  dry, 
Wind-parted  it  will  lie — 
So,  mother  mine,  good-bye!' 

He  could  not  hear  her  cry. 

Song  of  the  Cossack 

(Ruthi'nian  Folk  Songj 

HEAVILY  hangs  the  rye 
Bent  to  the  trampled  ground ; 
While  brave  men  fighting  die 

Through   blood   the   horses    bound. 


374  Florence  Eandal  Livesay 

Under  the  white-stemmed   tree 

A  Cossack  bold  is  slain — 
They  lift  him  tenderly 

Into  the  ruined  grain. 

Some  one  has  borne  him  there, 

Someone  has  put  in  place 
A  scarkt  cloth,  with  prayer, 

Over  the  up-turned  face. 

Softly  a  girl  has  come — 

Dove-like  she  looks;  all  gray — 
Stares  at  the  soldier  dumb 

And,  crying,  goes  away. 

Then,   swift,   another  maid — 

Ah,  how  unlike  she  is! — 
With  grief  and  passion  swayed 

Gives  him  her  farewell  kiss. 

The  third  one  does  not  cry, 

Caresses  none  has  she : 
'Three  girls  thy  love  flung  by — 

Death  rightly  came  to  thee!' 

Khustina — The  Kerchief 

(From  the  Ukrainian  of  Fedkovich) 
[It  is  the  custom  among  Ukrainian  maidens  to  embroider  such  a 
kerchief    for  the   betrothal,   and   then   it   is   bound   upon   the   arm   or 
worn  in  some  noticeable  way  on  the  man's  person.] 

'HE  sun  was  drowning  in  the  ocean's  brim 
Red,   red   as  blood; 
And  in  the  crimson  flood 
A  young  girl  sewed  a  handkerchief  with  gold. 

Embroidering  in  gold  with  stitches  fine — 

Like  lilies  white 

Her  cheeks  will  look  to-night, 
Like  pure-white  lilies  washed  with  tears. 

And  as  she  sewed  she  pressed  it  to  her  heart; 

Then,  weeping  sore, 

She  opened  wide  the  door: 
'Strong  wind,  my  Eagle,  take  this  on  your  wings!' 


T 


Florence  Randal  Livesay  37; 

'Strong^  as  the  Dunai  swiftly  onward  flows, 

O  Wind  so  free 

Deliver  this  for  me 
Where  now  he  serves,  yea,  where  the  heart  well  knows ! 
'He  in  the  Uhlans'  ranks  is  fighting  now — 

Go,  Golden  One, 

From  sun  to  sun 
Float  on  the  wind  until  that  place  you  find ! 
'And,  Golden  One,  when  you  shall  hear  one  call 

Even  as  a  dove, 

Rest,  for  my  love, 
My  loved  one  will  be  waiting  there  below ! 
'He  has  a  bay  horse,  and  his  weapons  are 

Shining  as  gold. 

Wind,  free  and  bold. 
Fall  to  his  heart  as  the  rose  petals  fall ! 
'If  sleeping,  w^ake  him  not;  and  if — O  God! — 

H  slain  he  lie. 

For  your  good-bye 
O  Golden  One,  cover  his  sw^eet  dead  face!' 

At  Vieille  Chapelle 

'At  Vieille  Chapelle  there  was  a  furious  encounter  in  a  cemetery." 
JURYING,  burying     .     .     . 
J—^  Clods  are  we,  clods  zve  toss. 
The  children  zveave  flower  garlands  in  the  sun 
For  this  or  that  dead  one 

Or  make  a  cross. 
While  zve  are  burying. 
Listening,  listening. 

The  dead  men  heard  the  battle  overhead. 
The  gravestones   fell   in    ruins   to  the  ground — 

Beneath,  more  dead  we  found. 
Fighting  on,  fighting  on. 

The  rest  passed  by — or  halted  here — 
We  buried  two,  up  in  the  graveyard  there. 

German  and  French  they  were. 
Pitiless,  merciless, 

But  well-matched,  too,  thev  cut  and  thrust. 


376  Florence  Kandal  Livesay 


d; 


Until  they  reached  that  Httle  cottage  door — 
They  never  came  out  more. 

Lying  so — buried  so — 

I  sometimes  think,  at  night,  of  how  they  must 
Hate  still,  and  strug'gle  to  arise 

Death-fury  in  their  eyes. 

Side  by  side,  side  by  side, 

Surely  they  would  not,  think  you,  rest  in  peace? 
Too  near  was  dug  each  grave. 

Eh  bien,  they  both  were  brave! 

The  Bride  of  the  Sea 

(The  Titanic) 
kECKED  as  a  bride  with  charms 
She  left  her  ancient  isle 
To  come  unto  my  arms — 
I  waited,  mile  on  mile. 

A  maiden  ship,  all  gay 

With  gilt  and  'broidery, 
She  sang,  upon  her  way, 

'Neptune,  I  come  to  thee!' 

But  all  the  journey  long 

Spite  of  her  revelry, 
I  heard  her  undersong, 

'Nay,  but  I  would  be  free!' 

Then  I  sent  curtseying  hosts 

To  greet  her  as  she  came — 
Soundless   and  white  as  ghosts 

And  terrible   as  flame. 

They  drew  her  to  my  side, 

Fair  in  her  wedding  dress, 
Where  every  lapping  tide 

Shall  give  her  my  caress. 


'God  of  all  souls  forlorn,' — 
The  cry  comes  piteously 
From  hearts  by  anguish  torn- 

'Restore  my  dead  to  me !' 


Theodore  Goodridge  Roberts 

For  recognition  as  a  poet  Theodore  Goodridge  Roberts  has 
had  to  stand  comparison  i^'ith  the  high  acJiievements  of  his  dis- 
tinguished brother.  Yet,  as  poets,  he  and  Charles  G.  D.  dif- 
fer zvidely.  Charles  began  on  Pierus,  but  i<'andcred  off  into  the 
more  practical  realm  of  prose,  where,  apart  from  occasioiial  di- 
versions, he  has  remained.  Theodore,  on  the  other  hand,  at- 
tacked the  novel  at  the  beginning  of  his  literary  career,  and  it 
is  on  the  novel  that  he  has  had  to  depend  for  most  of  his  reputa- 
tion. .  .  .  As  yet  a  book  of  his  poems  has  not  appeared. 
Nevertheless,  the  results  of  his  muse  so  far,  though  vagrant, 
are  sufficient  to  display  a  quality  zvhich,  if  not  peculiar  to  the 
author,  is  at  least  vigorous  and  refreshing.  And  there  are 
touches,  even  some  fine  conceits,  in  such  poems  as  'The  Bli)id 
Sailor,'  'Private  North,'  and  'The  Lost  Shipmate'  that  seem 
to  distinguish  him  from  other  poets,  and  to  make  him  a  })ia)i's 
poet.  And  it  is  on  his  achievements  as  a  man's  poet,  and  not 
as  a  novelist,  that  Theodore  Roberts  undoubtedly  tc/V/  stake 
his  final  reputatioti. 

— Newton  .M  acT  \\  isii.  cditnr  of  the  Wnuulian  ^^ai;■azine.' 

13771 


Tlieodore  (iooclridse  lloberts 


THEODORE  GOODRIDGE  ROBERTS,  as  a  poet  and 
novelist,  is  not  the  least  great  of  a  distinguished  family. 
His  poetry  has  strength  and  originality  and  should  develop 
into  Ivrics.  ballads  and  epics  very  much  worth  while. 

It  has  been  pointed  out  that  he  is  a  man's  poet ;  he  is  also 
a  man's  novelist.  His  many  novels  of  adventure  and  romance 
have  wide  popularity  in  English-speaking  lands.  These  are 
a  few  of  the  best  known:  Hemming,  the  Adventurer,  1904; 
Brothers  of  Peril,  1905;  The  Red  Feathers,  1907;  A  Cavalier 
of  Virginia,  1910;  A  Captain  of  Raleigh's,  1911;  The  ]Vasp, 
1913 ;  and  The  Toll  of  the  Tides,  1914. 

Mr.  Roberts  was  born  in  Fredericton,  New  Brunswick,  July 
7th,  1877.  He  is  the  youngest  of  four  brothers  of  which 
Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  (q.v.)  is  the  eldest.  His  education  was 
received  at  the  Fredericton  Collegiate  School,  and  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  New  Brunswick,  but,  like  his  sister,  he  did  not 
complete  the  University  course. 

In  November,  1903.  he  married  Frances  Seymore  Allen, 
daughter  of  the  Rev.  Thomas  Allen.  Since  their  marriage 
they  have  lived  in  Barbados,  England,  France,  and  much 
of  the  time  in  and  near  Fredericton,  N.B.  They  have  three 
children  living,  a  boy  and  two  girls. 

Captain  Theodore  Goodridge  Roberts  is  now  at  the  Front, 
serving  as  'Assistant  Canadian  Eye- Witness.' 

The  Maid 

THUNDER  of  riotous  hoofs  over  the  quaking  sod; 
Clash  of  reeking  squadrons,  steel-capped,  iron-shod ; 
The  White  Maid,  and  the  white  horse,  and  the  flapping  banner 
of    God. 

Black  hearts  riding  for  money ;  red  hearts  riding  for  fame ; 
The  maid  who  rides  for  France  and  the  king  who  rides  for 

shame. 
Gentlemen,  fools  and  a  saint,  riding  in  Christ's  hig'h  name! 

Dust  to  dust  it  is  written !     Wind-scattered  are  lance  and  bow. 
Dust,  the  Cross  of  St.  George ;  dust,  the  banner  of  snow. 


Theodoro  Goodridge  Koberts  ^''^ 


The  bones  of  the  king  are  crumbled  and   rotted  the  shafts 
of  the  foe. 

Forgotten,  the  young  knight's  valour.    Forgotten,  the  captain's 

skill. 
Forgotten,  the  fear  and  the  hate  and  the  mailed  hands  raised 

to  kill. 
Forgotten,  the  shields  that  clashed  and  the  arrows  that  cried 

so  shrill. 

Like  a  story  from  some  old  book,  that  battle  of  Long  Ago! 
Shadows,  the  poor  French  King  and  the  might  of  his  English 

Foe: 
Shadows,  the  charging  nobles  and  the  archers  kneeling  a-row — 
But  a  flame  in  my  heart  and  my  eyes,  the  Maid  with  the  banner 

of  snow. 

The  Blind  Sailor 

tOTRIKE  me  blind!'  we  swore. 

»«^God,  and  I  was  stricken ! 
I  have  seen  the  morning  fade 
And  noonday  thicken. 

Be  merciful,  O  God,  that  I  have  named  in  vain. 

I  am  blind  in  the  eyes;  but  spare  the  gleam  in  my  brain. 

Though  my  footsteps  falter,  let  my  soul  still  sight 

The  things  that  were  my  life  before  you  hid  the  light. 

Little  things  were  they.  Lord,  too  small  to  be  denied: 
The  green  of  roadstead  waters,  where  the  tired  ships  ride. 
Bark  and  brig  and  barkentine,  blown  from  near  and  far. 
Safe  inside  the  spouting  reef  and  the  sobbing  bar. 

Leave  to  me  my  pictures,  Lord,  leave  my  memories  bright: 
The  twisted  palms  are  clashing,  and  the  sand  is  white. 
The  shore-boats  crowd  around  us,  the  skipper's  gig  is  manned. 
The  nutmegs  spice  the  little  wind  that  baffle?  off  the  land. 

The  negro  girls  are  singing  in  the  fields  of  cane. 
The  lizards  dart  on  that  white  path  I'll  not  walk  again. 


380  Theodore  Goodridge  Roberts 

The  opal  blinds  melt  up  at  dawn,  the  crimson  blinds  flare  down, 
And  white  against  the  mountains  flash  the  street-lamps  of  the 
town. 

Leave  to  me  my  pictures,  Lord,  spare  my  mind  to  see 
The  shimmer  of  the  water  and  the  shadow  of  the  tree, 
The  cables  roaring-  down,  the  gray  sails  swiftly  furled, 
A  riding-light  ablink  in  some  far  corner  of  the  world. 

Leave  to  me  my  pictures,  Lord:  the  islands  and  the  main, 
The  little  things  a  sailorman  must  out  to  see  again ; 
The  beggars  in  the  market-place,  the  oxen  in  the  streets, 
The  bitter,  black  tobacco  and  the  women  selling  sweets. 

I  have  fed  my  vision,  Lord ;  now  I  pray  to  hold 

The  blue  and  gray  and  silver,  the  green  and  brown  and  gold. 

I  have  filled  my  heart.  Lord;  now  I  pray  to  keep 

The  laughter  and  the  colour  through  this  unlifting  sleep. 

'Strike  me  blind !'  we  swore. 
God,  and  I  am  blind ! 
But  leave  me  still,  O  Lord, 
The  pictures  in  the  mind! 

Private  North 

HUNCHED  in  his  greatcoat,  there  he  stands, 
Sullen  of  face  and  rough  of  hands, 
Ready  to  fight,  unready  to  drill, 
Willing  to  suffer  and  ready  to  kill. 

He  isn't  our  best ;  he  isn't  our  worst ; 

He  won't  be  the  last,  and  he  wasn't  the  first. 

What  does  he  offer  to  you,  O  king? 
Himself — an  humble  and  uncouth  thing. 
What  does  he  offer  you  fit  to  take? 
A  life  to  spend,  a  body  to  break. 

His  brow  is  sullen,  his  ways  are  rough ; 
But  his  heart,  I'll  warrant,  is  true  enough. 


Tlieodoro  Goodridge  Roberts  ^^^ 


I've  seen  his  shack,  low-set  and  gray, 
In  tlie  black  woods  thousands  of  miles  away 
Where  he  lived,  from  the  mad,  loud  world  removed, 
Masterless,   eager,   and   greatly    loved. 

Hunched   in  his  greatcoat,  there  he  stands, 
Offering  all  with  his  heart  and  hands. 

He  offers  his  life  to  your  needs,  O  King! — 
A  sullen,  humble,  and  untrained  thing — 
And  with  it,  for  chance  to  spare  or  take, 
A  woman's  spirit  to  wring  and  break. 

The  Lost  Shipmate 

SOMEWHERE  he  failed  me,  somewhere  he  slipped  away — 
Youth,  in  his  ignorant  faith  and  his  bright  array. 
The  tides  go  out ;  the  tides  come  flooding  in ; 
Still  the  old  years  die  and  the  new  begin; 
But  youth? — 
Somewhere  we  lost  each  other,  last  year  or  yesterday. 

Somewhere  he   failed  me.     Down   at   the  harbour-side 

I  waited  for  him  a-little,  where  the  anchored  argosies  ride. 

I  thought  he  came — the  steady  'trade'  blew  free — 

I  thought  he  came — 'twas  but  the  shadow  of  me ! 

And  Youth? — 

Somewhere  he  turned  and  left  me,  about  the  turn  of  the  tide. 

Perhaps  I  shall  find  him.     It  may  be  he  waits  for  me, 
Sipping  those  wines  we  knew,  beside  some  tropic  sea; 
The  tides  still  serve,  and  I  am  out  and  away 
To  search  the  spicy  harbours  of  yesterday 
For  Youth, 

Where  the  lamps  of  the  town  are  yellow  beyond  the  lamps  on 
the  quay. 

Somwhere  he  failed  me,  somewhere  he  slipped  away — 
Youth,  in  his  ignorant  heart  and  his  bright  array. 
Was  it  in  Bados?    God.  I  would  pay  to  know! 


382  Theodore  Goodridge  Roberts 

Was  it  on  Spanish  Hill,  where  the  roses  blow? 

Ah,  Youth! 

Shall  I  hear  your  laughter  to-morrow,  in  painted  Olivio? 

Somewhere  I  failed  him.     Somewhere  I  let  him  depart — 
Youth,  who  would  only  sleep  for  the  morn's  fresh  start. 
The  tides  slipped  out,  the  tides  washed  out  and  in, 
And  Youth  and  I  rejoiced  in  their  wastrel  din. 
Ah,  Youth ! 

Shall  I  find  you  south  of  the  Gulf? — or  are  you  dead  in  my 
heart  ? 

The  Reckoning 

YE  who  reckon  with  England — 
Ye  who  sweep  the  seas 
Of  the  flag  that  Rodney  nailed  aloft 

And  Nelson  flung  to  the  breeze — 
Count  well  your  ships  and  your  men. 

Count  well  your  horse  and  your  guns, 
For  they  who  reckon   with  England 
Must  reckon  with  England's  sons. 

Ye  who  would  challenge  England — 

Ye  who  would  break  the  might 
Of  the  little  isle  in  the  foggy  sea 

And  the  lion-heart  in  the  fight — 
Count  well  your  horse  and  your  swords. 

Weigh  well  your  valour  and  guns. 
For  they  who  would  ride  against  England 

Must  sabre  her  million  sons. 

Ye  who  would  roll  to  warfare 

Your  hordes  of  peasants  and  slaves. 
To  crush  the  pride  of  an  empire 

And  sink  her  fame  in  the  waves — 
Test  well  your  blood  and  your  mettle, 

Count  well  your  troops  and  your  guns, 
For  they  who  battle  with  England 

Must  war  with  a  Mother's  sons. 


Grace  Blackburn 

Miss  Blackburn,  under  the  nam  de  plume,  'Fanfan,'  has 
for  years  been  i^h'ini^  us  articles  in  the  London  Free  Press 
that  place  her  in  the  fore-front,  if  not  at  the  head,  of  the 
zvriters  upon  literary  topics,  in  the  daily  press  of  Canada. — 
•Catholic  Record,'  London,  Ontario. 

Miss  Blackburn  is  zvell  knoivn  throughout  Western  Ontario, 
under  the  nam  de  plume,  'Fanfan,'  and  in  the  Mezc  York 
theatrical  zvorld,  is  considered  one  of  the  best  dramatic  critics 
in  Canada. — 'Hamilton  Herald.' 

A  zvriter  zvith  a  large  brain  and  a  big.  zvarm  heart:  a 
twentieth  century  thinker,  z^'ith  the  indiz-iduality  of  original 
thought  and  expression:  a  poet  just  beginning  to  reali::e  her 
gift,  and  its  underlying  responsibility:  one  of  the  best  equipped 
of  our  literary  and  dramatic  critics,  and  z^'ith  the  faculty  of 
logical  and  co)nprchcusi:'c  interpretation — altogether,  a  distinct 
force  in  the  intellectual  life  of  the  Dominion,  of  zchom  much 
may  be  expected. — The  Editor. 


883] 


'■^•^^  ( Trace  Blackburn 

GRACE  BLACKBURN  is  the  fifth  daughter  of  the  late 
Josiah  Blackburn,  of  London,  Ontario,  proprietor  and  edi- 
tor, for  nearly  forty  years,  of  the  Prcc  Press,  and  one  of  the 
ablest  and  most  intluential  of  the  earlier  newspaper  men  of 
Canada.  Her  mother's  maiden  name  was  Emma  Delemere. 
Her  paternal  ^grandfather  was  the  Rev.  John  Blackburn,  a 
Cong-reg-ationalist  pastor  of  London.  England,  and  for  many 
years  editor  of  the  official  organ  of  that  denomination.  He  was 
also  a  writer  of  prominence  on  matters  literary  and  archeologi- 
cal. 

Miss  Grace  was  educated  in  the  public  and  high  schools  of 
her  native  city,  and  later  in  Hellmuth  College,  then  the  Dio- 
cesan School  of  Huron.  Since  graduation,  she  has  been  en- 
gaged chiefly  in  educational  and  journalistic  work.  She 
taught  English  for  two  years  in  the  Bishop  Whipple  Schools, 
Faribault,  Minnesota,  and  for  one  year  was  acting  Principal 
of  the  Diocesan  School  of  Northern  Indiana,  at  Indianapolis. 
In  1900,  she  returned  to  Canada  to  join  the  staff  of  the  Free 
Press,  as  literary  and  dramatic  critic,  etc.,  and  has  held  the 
position  ever  since.  Three  of  those  years  were  spent  in  New 
A^ork,  in  the  interests  of  the  paper,  and  four  in  Europe,  where 
she  journeyed  entensively  and  wrote  many  fascinating  travel 
articles.  Besides  her  regular  newspaper  work,  she  is  now 
giving  considerable  time  and  attention  to  poetic  achieve- 
ment, and  to  the  writing  of  a  novel,  with  a  basic  motive  aris- 
ing out  of  the  Great  War. 

Miss  Blackburn  is  not  a  'club  woman'  as  that  term  is  ordin- 
arily understood,  but  she  has  long  been  much  interested  in 
'The  Association  of  Canadian  Clubs,'  and  in  1913,  was  elected 
to  the  official  position  of  Literary  Correspondent,  and  reelected 
the  ensuing  year. 

The  Evening  Star 

BOVE  the  sunset's  many-tinted  bar. 
Where  light  on  light,  a  smiling  iris  guar. 
Mellows  to  mystery  of  near  and  far. 
Swings  passionately  pale  the  Evening'  Star ! 
Queen  of  the  twilight — from  a  conquered  sky 
She  smiles  to  see  the  Day  grow  faint  and  die. 


A 


Orace  Blackburn  385 

Epic  of  the  Yser 

tr^  EAD  with  his  face  to  the  foe!' 

L'  From  Hastings  to  Yser 
Our  men  have  died  so. 
The  lad  is  a  hero — 
Great  Canada's  pride : 
We  sent  him  with  glory, 
For  glory  he  died — 
So  ring  out  the  church-bells !     Float  the  flag  high ! 

Then  I  heard  at  my  elbow  a  fierce  mother-cry. 

On  the  desolate  plain 

Where  the  dark  Yser  flows 

They'll  bury  him,  maybe, 

Our  Child  of  the  Snows: 

The  message  we  sent  them 

Through  fire  and  through  flood 

He  signed  it  and  sealed  it 

To-day  with  his  blood — 

United  we  stand !     Our  Empire  is  One ! 

But  this  woman  beside  me?     .     .     .     The  boy  was  her  son. 

Sing  Ho  for  the  Herring 

ALONG  the  sea  shore,  surf-beaten  and  brown, 
The  Fisher-Lass  hastes  to  the  Fishing-Town, 
In  kirtle  of  blue  and  bodice  of  red, 
The  sun  at  its  nooning  over  her  head, 
And  braw   is  the  salt  wind  blowing — 
Then  sing,  sing  ho  for  the  Herring, 
The  shimmering,  sliddery  Herring! 

Along  the  sea  shore  the  Fisher-Lads  sigh 
For  the  daffing  mouth  and  the  daunting  eye, 
And  they  sue  and  they  woo,  Rubin,  Lubin  and  Bill, 
But  she  taunts  and  she  flaunts  as  a  Fisher-Lass  will; 
And  sleek  is  the  water  flowing — 
Then  sing,  sing  ho  for  the  Herring, 
The  gleeking,  glamourish  Herring! 
20 


3t!6  Grace  Blackburn 

Along  the  sea  shore  she  shadeth  her  eyes 

To  where  on  the  wave  his  white  sails  rise, 

For  it  seems  there's  a  wraith  in  the  midst  of  the  glare, 

And  a  voice  that  she  loves  calls  shrilly  and  rare ; 

Ah,  sly  is  the  under-towing — 

Then  sing,  sing  ho  for  the  Herring, 

The  spectral,  the  silver-hued  Herring. 

Along  the  sea  shore  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale, 
In  its  rage  and  its  roar,  its  swash  and  its  swale, 
With  faltering  steps  and  staggering  tread 
They  bear  him  up  softly  the  stark,  stark,  Dead ; 
Oh,  lang  and  dour  is  the  knowing — 
Then  sing,  sing  ho  for  the  Herring, 
The  life-giving,  death-dealing  Herring! 

If  Winter  Come 

DISDAINFUL  Earth! 
Hooded   in   clouds   and   snowdrifts — 
Great  gray  Earth, 

That  shivers  and  gathers  her  garments! 
Just  for  a  space  you  lower  your  eyelids, 
Just  for  a  moment  you  turn  me  the  cold  of  your  shoulder. 
There !  There !  Already ! — 
Now  I  have  caught  you — 
A  turquoise  rift  in  the  rack, 
That  was  relenting! 

And  back  of  the  pine-trees  a  flash  like  a  smile, 
That,   O  earth,  was  your  promise! 

Below  the  depth  of  the  frost 

Is  the  warmth  of  your  bosom. 

The  ice  in  your  veins 

Is  troth  to  the  rain  and  the  runnel. 

The  catch  in  the  call  of  the  wind 

Is  your  lip  at  my  ear — 

Your  whisper  of  breezes. 

Of  breezes  and  blossom — 

Of  summer — of  sweetness — of  love  ! 


Oraco  "Blacklnirn  3^7 

The  Cypress -Tree 

OUT  of  the  clod  of  earth 
That  holds  me  to  this  melancholy  i)lace, 
As  ancient  servitors 
Held  flambeaux  for  their  lords 
In  draug-hty  corridors, 
I  leap  into  the  sky. 

I  am  a  torch  with  an  inherent  blaze, 

No  winter  bears  me  or  my  verdure  down : 

The  whirling  snow  and  ice 

Fall  on  me  to  their  peril,  not  to  mine : 

The  swift  and  sudden  wind 

Deflects  but  can  not  quench 

My  everlasting  fire. 

My  fire  that  mounts  out  of  the  cerecloth  of  the  dead 

And  draws  its  essence  from  mortality, 

Transmuting  dissolution  and  despair 

Into  aspiring  form — 

A  shape  that  is  a  symbol — 

A  pose  prophetic! 

I  am  the  Cypress-Tree  men  plant  on  graves. 

And  on  their  graves — I  flame!  ' 

The  Chant  of  the  Woman 

CLASH  the  cymbals ! 
String  the  harp  and  sound  it — 
Cymbals  and  harp,  there,  you  Makers  of  Music! 

I  will  chant  to  my  Comrade  the  chant  of  my  being*, 
Woman  to  Man  will  I  chant  it. 

I  am  as  old  as  any.    I  too  have  a  lineage. 
I  have  come  up  by  forms  and  through  zeons; 
Forms  of  manifold  fashion,  aeons  of  infinite  dream. 

I,  too,  am  projected  of  Poets,  oflFspring  of  the  Singers: 

I   have   lain   in  the   womb   of  the   World   and   incarnate   its 

wonder — 
I  have  played  with  the  Cliild  of  the  ages  and  captured  its  g"lee — 
I  have  been  kissed  with  the  kisses  of  Kings — 
Great  Lovers  have  whispered  their  lore  for  my  learning. 


388  Grace  Blackburn 


Then  and  now  and  always,  wide  away  and  the  length  of  a  span, 

I  gather  that  I  must  gather,  by  impulse,  election: 

In  me  only  is  attraction, 

It  alone  could  attract  me, 

So  am  I  myself,  and  none  other, 

Myself — a  mystery  !   a  mouthpiece  ! 

Myself  and  yet  yourself,  we  two  inexplicably  one — 

Flesh  in  its  consummation.  Soul  in  its  incompleteness — 

And  because  of  the  incompleteness  of  Soul, 

Woman  to  man, 

I  chant  you  the  chant  of  my  being. 

I  cannot  live  on  the  crumbs  that  fall  from  a  Table: 

I  must  be  lifted, 

Lifted  level  with  my  love  and  with  my  Lover. 

I  must  be  clothed  with  the  purple,  made  free  of  the  signet— 

I  must  put  my  hand  in  his  dish,  my  head  on  his  bosom — 

Eye  to  eye  must  we  lean,  loquacious  together. 

So,  and  so  only 

Can  I  give  him  to  drink  of  the  wine  of  my  winning, 

My  strange  new  wine  that  seethes  and  bubbles. 

So  and  so  only 

Can  I  kiss  on  his  lips  the  messag'e  of  Kings — 

Whisper  the  wonder  of  Life, 

The  laugh  of  the  Child— 

The  lore  of  the  Lovers. 

Level !  Level !  Level ! 

Level  with  your  lips  and  your  eyes  my.  Comrade, 

Swing  to  the  height  of  your  heart, 

Caught  in  your  soul  and  kept  there 

Pervading  and  peerless! 

So,  and  so  only,  your  Lover,  your  Servant: 

Every  passionate  pulse-beat 

Under  the  blue  veins  in  my  white  wrist 

Your  Servant  and  Lover — 

I  cannot  live  on  the  crumbs  that  fall  from  a  Table ! 


George  A.  Mackenzie 


Mr.  Mackcvtcie  bcloni^s  to  lluit  rare  conil'aiiy  of  cultured, 
refined,  nhnlest  minds  zelio  rei^urd  poetry  as  dainty  messages 
of  the  spirit  for  appreciation  /'v  souls  akin  to  themselves. 
lie  is.  above  all  things,  an  artist  in  -versification. 
Technically  vieieed  his  sonnets  are  superb.  TJicy  are  much 
more  than  this  in  beauty  of  thought  and  spiritual  appeal. 
.  .  .  'In  That  Xezv  World  JJliich  Is  The  Old'  is  remark- 
able for  a  novel  simile  in  the  octette 'Magellan' 

is  rhythmically  as  fine  as  Joaquin  Miller's  celebrated  'Colum- 
bus.'  and   in   quiet   dignity   mncJi    more  satisfying 

'Malcolm'  is  a  narrative  poem,  finely,  movingly  signalizing  the 
function  of  the  tragedy  of  Love  in  the  Restoration  of  Faith. 
IVritten  in  blank  verse,  iambic  pentameter,  the  beauty  of  the 
poem,  apart  fro)ii  its  high  spiritual  dignity,  lies  in  its  refined 
diction  and  in  its  extraordinary  imagery,  whenei'er  the  poet 
wishes  to  enhance  a  sentiment  or  a  -i-i'z-id  picture  of  reality.  It 
lias  )naiiy  fine  lines  and  niemorable  )iietaphors. — Dr.  J-  D. 
Logan,  in  a  letter  to  The  Flaneur,  oi  the  'Mail  and  l-jiiiMre." 

[389] 


390  George  A.  Mackenzie 

WHEN  the  Fenians  raided  Upper  Canada  in  1866,  George 
Allan  ^Mackenzie,  a  lad  in  his  17th  year,  who  had 
enlisted  as  a  private  in  the  13th  Battalion  of  Hamilton, 
took  part  ii^.  the  affair  of  Ridgeway,  and  was  wounded  hy 
the  enemy,  suff'ering  a  comixound  fracture  of  an  arm. 

Mr.  Mackenzie  was  born  in  Toronto,  July  20th.  1849, 
the  eldest  son  of  the  Rev.  John  George  Delhoste  Mackenzie, — 
first  Rector  of  St.  Paul's.  Toronto,  and  also  first  Master  of  Arts 
of  Trinity  University — and  Catharine  Eliza,  eldest  daughter 
of  Mr.  [Marcus  Crombie,  Head  Master  of  the  Toronto  Gram- 
mar School.  His  grandfather.  Captain  John  Mackenzie, 
served  as  an  officer  in  the  Peninsula,  under  Wellington,  and 
later  fought  in  the  battle  of  New  Orleans. 

He  was  educated  at  his  father's  private  Grammar  School  in 
Hamilton,  and  later  at  Trinity  College,  Toronto,  entering'  the 
latter  in  the  autumn  of  1866  and.  after  a  brilHant  record, 
graduating  in  1869  with  first-class  honours  in  classics  and 
with  the  much  coveted  Prince  of  Wales  Prize.  Mr.  Macken- 
zie chose  law  as  a  profession  and  was  called  to  the  Bar  in 
1873.  For  a  time  he  served  as  legal  secretary  to  Hon.  (after- 
wards Sir)  Oliver  Mowat,  then  Attorney-General  of  Ontario, 
and  then  entered  into  partnership  with  Jones  Bros.,  barristers, 
etc.,  Toronto.  This  firm,  'Jones  Bros.  &  Mackenzie,'  became 
afterwards,  'Jones,  Mackenzie  &  Leonard.'  Failing  health  in- 
duced him  to  retire  from  active  practice  about   1900. 

In  1886,  Mr.  Mackenzie  married  Miss  Ella  Therese  Demuth, 
daughter  of  Mr.  Lawrence  L  Demuth,  of  Philadelphia.  Of 
this  marriage,  a  daughter,  is  at  present  engaged  in  voluntary 
service  in  a  military  hospital  at  Folkestone,  England,  and  a 
son.  Lieutenant  G.  L.  B.  Mackenzie  of  the  3rd  Battalion,  Tor- 
onto, was  killed  in  action  in  Flanders,  in  1916.  Mrs.  Macken- 
zie died  in  1899.  His  brothers,  E.  C.  Mackenzie  and  J.  B. 
Mackenzie,  are  well-known  practising  lawyers  in  Toronto. 

Tn  June  of  1915  our  poet  went  to  England,  and  is  tem])or- 
arily  resident  at  Folkestone. 

His  poems  appeared  in  book  form  in  1914,  entitled  'In  that 
New  World  Which  is  the  Old.'  They  are  the  artistic  expres- 
sion of  a  scholarly  mind,  imbued  with  deep  religious  conviction 
and  the  nobler  pur])oses  of  life. 


Georore  A.  Mackenzie  ^91 


In  that  New  World  which  Is  the  Old 

ONCE,  like  the  Arab  with  his  shifting  tent 
To  some  new  shade  of  pahiis  each  day  addrest, 
My  soul,  a  homeless  wanderer,  unblest, 

Roamed  all  the  realm  of  change,  in  purpose  bent 
To  find  a  happier  world,  with  banishment 
Of  that  dull  pain  which  drove  away  its  rest. 
Through  fruitless  years  my  soul  pursued  its  quest, 
Until  with  longing  I  was  well-nigh  spent. 

And  then  I  found  God's  Presence;  and  the  ray 
Of  that  mysterious  dayspring,  clear  and  sweet. 

Touched  all  the  common  things  of  every  day. 
And  there  in  house,  and  field,  and  in  the  street 
From  childhood  trodden  by  my  heedless  feet, 

The  long-sought  world  in  dewy  freshness  lay. 

To  a  Humming-Bird 

THOU  vagrant  melody,  light  crown 
Of  rainbow  mist  above  the  flower, 
Rifler,  with  touch  like  thistledown. 

Of  blooms  that  meekly  yield  their  dower 
Of  sweets  to  thy  soft  and  yet  imperious  power, 

Gay,  flashing,  flickering,  fairy  thing, 
Embodied  zephyr,  shimmering  sound. 

Whence  hast  thou  come  on  gauzy  wing 
To  my  straight  plot  of  city  ground  ? 

Whence  hast  thou  come  and  whither  art  thou  bound? 

Hast  thou  been  where  the  Northern  wave 
Breaks  half  the  year  on  coasts  of  snow? 

Hast  thou  flashed  on  the  dreary  cave 
Of  the  squat,  stolid  Eskimo 

With  the  keen  splendour  of  thy  tropic  glow  ? 

And  now,  thy  merry  summer  jaunt 

Completed,  dost  thou  wisely  fare 
Homeward,  to  some  safe  jungle  haunt, 

Whither  'mid  close-locked  boughs  repair 
Strange  feathered  things  of  plumage  rich  and  rare? 


393  George  A.  Mackenzie 

I  marvel  at  thy  countless  leagues 

Of  travel ;  how,  secure  from  harm, 
Thou  bravest  perils  and  fatigues ; 

I  marvel  how  thy  tiny  form 
Weathers  the  drenching  rain,  the  driving  storm. 

Thou  art  fled !  my  garden  seems  bereft 

Of  all  its  beauty !  yet  some  sense 
Of  joy  and  blessing  thou  hast  left 

Behind  thee,  as  a  recompense, 
Which  shall  remain  when  thou  art  flown  far  hence. 

A  sense  of  joy,  that  He  whose  hand 

Shaped  thee  and  all  things  sweet  and  fair, 

Hath  pleasure  in  the  thing  He  planned; 
A  sense  of  trust,  in  Him  whose  care 

Pilots  thy  course  through  the  uncharted  air. 

Magellan 

THERE  is  no  change  upon  the  deep: 
To-day  they  see  the  prospect  wide 
Of  yesterday ;  the  same  waves  leap ; 
The  same  pale  clouds  the  distance  hide, 
Or  shaped  to  mountain-peaks  their  hopes  of  land  deride. 

On  and  still  on  the  soft  winds  bear 

The  rocking  vessel,  and  the  main 
That  is  so  pitiless  and  so  fair, 

Seems  like  a  billowy,  boundless  plain 

Where  one  might  sail,  and  sail,  and  ever  sail  in  vain. 

Famine  is  there  with  haggard  cheek, 

And  fever  stares  from  hollow  eyes; 
And   sullen  murmurs   rise,  that  speak 

Curses  on  him  whose  mad  emprise 

Has  lured  men  from  their  homes  to  die  'neath  alien  skies. 

But  he,  the  captain,  he  is  calm ; 

His  glance  compels  the  mutineer ; 
In  fainting  hearts  he  pours  the  balm 

Of  sympathy,  and  lofty  cheer : 

'Courage !  a  few  more  leagues  will  prove  the  earth  a  sphere. 


Georji^o  A.  Mackenzie  -^^s 

'The  world  is  round :  there  is  an  end ; 
We  do  not  vainly  toil  and  roam ; 

The  kiss  of  wife,  the  clasp  of  friend, 
The  fountains  and  the  vines  of  home. 
Wait  us  beyond  the  cloud,  beyond  the  edge  of  foam.' 

My  Baby  Sleeps 

THE  wind  is  loud  in  the  west  to-night, 
But  Baby  sleeps ; 
The  wild  wind  blows  with  all  its  might, 

But  Baby  sleeps ; 
My  Baby  sleeps,  and  he  does  not  hear 
The  noise  of  the  storm  in  the  pine  trees  near. 

The  snow  is  drifting  high  to-night, 

But   Baby   sleeps ; 
The  bitter  world  is  cold  and  white, 

But   Baby   sleeps ; 
My  Baby  sleeps,  so  fast,  so  fast. 
That  he  does  not  heed  the  wintry  blast. 

The  cold  snows  drift,  and  the  wild  winds  rave, 

But   Baby   sleeps ; 
And  a  white  cross  stands  by  his  little  grave, 

While  Baby  sleeps ; 
And  the  storm  is  loud  in  the  rocking  pine. 
But  its  moan  is  not  so  deep  as  mine. 

The  Sleep  that  Flits  on  Baby's  Eyes 

A  paraphrase  of  Rabindranath  Tagore's  prose  translation 

HE  sleep  that  flits  on  baby's  eyes, 
Whence  does  it  come?     Can  you  surmise? 

Yes !  in  a  cool,  deep  forest  glade, 
Where  glowworms  dimly  light  the  shade, 
They  tell  of  a  fairy  village  shy. 
Where  two  enchanted  •  buds  hang'  high  ; 
Thence,  borne  by  fairy  fingers,  flies 
The  sleep  that  kisses  baby's  eyes. 

The  smile  in  his  sleep,  that  will  twinkle  and  go — 
Where  was  it  born  ?     Pray,  do  you  know  ? 

Yes !  for  a  rumour  floats  about — 

A  rumour — its  truth  I  dare  not  doubt — 


T 


394  George  A.  Mackenzie 

That  a  crescent  moon,  with  a  pale,  young  ray 
Touched  a  cloudlet's  edge,  ere  it  melted  away, 
And  there,  in  the  dream  of  a  dew-washed  morn. 
Baby's  flickering  smile  was  born. 
And  where  was  it  hidden — that  soft,  fresh  glow 
On  baby's  limbs  ?    Does  any  one  know  ? 

Yes!  in  a  day  that  is  long  since  fled, 
Ere  baby's  mother  was  grown  and  wed, 
With  the  first  sweet  dawning  of  love,  it  stole 
Into  the  depths  of  her  dreaming  soul, 
And  there  lay  hidden — the  soft,  fresh  rose 
That  now  on  the  limbs  of  baby  glows. 

*  Compel  Them  to  Come  In  * 

I   WAS  a  beggar  of  most  evil  fame, 
Uncleanly,  ragged,  full  of  sores  and  scars : 
Steeped  in  deceits  and  sunk  in  shame. 

The  hedge  my  bed  and  husks  my  daily  bread, 
Never  a  baser  thing  crept  under  Heaven's  stars. 

Before  the  palace  of  the  King  I  strayed, 

And  saw  the  splendid  casements  filled  with  light. 

A   feast  for  the  King's   Son  was  made. 

With  sordid  hate,  I  cursed  their  royal  state. 

Lifting  my  impious  hands,  out  there  in  the  black  night. 

A  marvel  then!  I  saw  the  doors  wide  swung, 
And  in  a  burst  of  light  and  joyous  press 

Of  music  on  the  darkness  flung, 

Straight  to  my  place,  with  swift,  composed  pace, 

The  royal  servants  came,  swift  and  with  strong  duress. 

With  strong  duress  unto  the  palace  gate 

They  dragged  my  unwilling  feet  and  held  me  fast. 

Lo!  there  the  Prince  Himself  did  wait. 
On  my  distress  and  ragged  nakedness 

He  looked,  and  His  gold-broidered  cloke  about  me  cast. 

O  dear  compassion !  Heavenly  ruth !  O  true 
And  knightly  deed  that  won  my  callous  breast 

To  shame  and  love!    In  that  high  retinue 

I  stood  with  lowered  brow.     But  the  King  said,  'Thou 

Hast  honour  of  my  Son:  henceforward  be  My  guest!' 


Gertrude  Bartlett 


This  fine  artist  in  words  whose  poems  have  appeared  in 
the  'Atlantic  Monthly,'  the  'Metropolitan,'  the  'Windsor'  and 
other  leadiiii^  pcriod-icals,  is  Mrs.  John  U'.  C.  Taylor,  of  Mon- 
treal. She  was  born  in  Xew  ITaven,  Oszcego  County,  \ .)' . 
Her  father  zvas  the  late  William  Cheever  Bartlett,  of  Xew 
Haven,  a  veteran  of  the  Civil  War,  and  a  descendant  of  Lien- 
tenant  Ceorge  Bartlett,  one  of  the  founders  of  Guilford,  i)i 
Connecticut,  in   1639:   and  her   mother,   Mary   Moulton,  also 

a  native  of  the  Empire  State After  studying  in 

public  schools  a-nd  under  private  tutors,  until  sez'cnteen  years 
of  age,  .^Hss  Bartlett  came  to  Toronto  a)id  secured  employ- 
ment in  the  law  offices  of  Macdonald  &  Marsh,  of  which 
firm  Sir  John  . /.  Macdonald  was  the  senior  partner.  In  1S91, 
she  married  the  young  English  artist  z>.'ho  has  since  become 
President  of  a  Lithographing  Company,  and  shortly  after- 
wards had  the  advantage  of  a  year  in  England,  z'isiting  Cathe- 
dral tozu)is,  birth-places  of  poets,  and  'unfrequented  by-z^'ays 
and  z'illages  of  pure  English  charm.'  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Taylor 
haz'e  one  child,  a  daughter. — The  Editor. 

[395] 


59^'  rTerti-ii(l(^  P>artlett 

The  Gunners 

WHO  may  the  victors  be,  not  yet  we  know; 
Our  care,  all  sio-hts  set  true,  the  shell  in  place, 
The  flame  outleaping-,  sending-  death  apace 
To   check  the   rush   of  the  oncoming-   foe. 
And  then,  as  sounds  of  thund'rous  hoof-beats  grow, 
\\'ith  grind  of  wheels  'neath  allies'  guns  at  race, 
We  hear  a  shriek  the  air  bring's  nigh,  and  face 
Our  instant  doom.    Then  tumults  cease  ;  and  lo  ! — 

The  shining  dead  men,  rank  on  rank,  appear. 
Their  voices  raised  in  one  great  cry,  to  hail 
The  gunners  prone,  for  whom  reveille  clear 
Their  silver  bugles  blow   in   morning  pale. 
Your  battle,  God !  to  make  men  great ;  and  here, 
In   that  cause,   dead,   unvanquished,   we  prevail. 

Put  by  the  Flute 

OLOA^E.   put   by   the   flute. 
Too  slight  the  tender,  liquid  strain 
We  heard  amid  the  April  rain 

Of  wild  white  blooms,  to  voice  the  spell 

Whereof  our  lips  are  mute. 
Let  organ  diapasons  tell 
The  music  of  the  waves  which  roll 
From  that  unfathomed  Sea,  the  Soul. 
So,   Love,  put  by  the  flute. 

The  flute,  O  Love,  put  by ; 
For  we  unto  the  wonder-strand 
Are  come,  from  out  the  valley  land 
Upon   the   Great  Adventure  bound. 

?Iere  river  reed  notes  die 
Within  the  larger  pulse  of  sound. 
Lest  list'ning  for  the  luring  call 
We  lose  the  greater  rhythm's  fall. 
The  flute,  dear  Love,  put  by. 

I'ut  by  the  flute,   O  Love. 
And  yet,  so  ])iercing  keen  the  tone 


Gertiiide  Bartlett 397 

Once  heard  in  yon  far  vale,  wind-blown 

Down  that  bright  stream,  whose  brim  we  twain 

With  laug'hter  leaned  above, 
The  joy  thereof  do  we  retain 
Among  our  mighty  chords,  that  so 
How  sweet  is  youth  all  men  may  know — 
Put  by  the  flute,  O  Love. 

Ballade  of  Barren  Roses 

THERE  sounds  his  step  receding  on  the  stair, 
The  bridegroom's,  that  my  love  could  not  detain ; 
For  whose  captivity  the  woman's  snare 

Of  veiled  brows  was  woven  all  in  vain. 
A  rose  I  held  he  keeps  with  tender  care. 

Tell  him,  dear  Jesu,  that  no  blossom  blows 
For  its  own  beauty,  howsoever  rare. 
The  Lord  of  Life  loves  not  a  barren  rose. 

The  destiny  of  roses  is  to  bear 

Their  scarlet  fruit  through  drear  autumnal  rain ; 
To  hold  upon  the  crystal  drifting  air 

Of  winter  days  the  cups  that  pour  again 
New  springtime  loveliness  for  earth  to  wear, 

When  all  the  verdure  now  her  bounds  enclose 
Is  gone  forever,  lily  with  the  tare. 

For  this  our  Lord  loves  not  a  barren  rose. 

What  thought  of  his  is  left  for  me  to  share 

Aroused  from  that  rapt  dream  in  which  we  twain 
Lighted  our  little  lamps  of  joy,  to  flare 

Along  a  single  path  to  Love's  domain? 
Will  he,   in  that  mysterious   region  where 

The  ruby  chalice  on  his  vision  glows. 
Exceeding  all  the  stars,  remembrance  spare 

To  one  his  I^rd  loves  not,  a  barren  rose? 

Envoy 

O  Mystic  Rose,  the  heart  of  Jesu.  fair 

Creative  source  from  which  all  beauty  flows. 

Ever  transfusing  Love,  hear  now  my  prayer: 
Resume  for  Love's  own  sake  one  barren  rose. 


398  Gertrude  Bartlett 


Ballade  of  Tristram's  Last  Harping 

THE  end  that  Love  doth  seek,  what  bard  can  say, 
In  that  fair  season  when  the  tender  green 
Of  opening  leaves  doth  roof  the  woods  of  May, 

And  sweet  wild  buds  from  out  their  places  lean 
To  touch  the  dainty  feet  that  heedless  stray 

Among  them,  with  a  youth  in  knight's  attire? 
His  lady's  will  capricious  to  obey. 

This  is  the  end  of  dawning  Love's  desire. 

And  when  amid  the  summer's  bright  array 

Of  blossoms,  are  the  crimson  roses  seen, 
And  one  young  maid,  fairer  than  any  spray 

In  perfect  bloom,  wanders  their  lines  between. 
What  blessed  solace  can  the  lover  pray 

Of  her  compassion,  for  his  heart  of  fire? 
With  kisses  on  her  mouth  all  words  to  stay — 

This  is  the  end  of  eager  Love's  desire. 

With  driven  clouds  the  lowering  sky  is  grey ; 

The  winds  above  the  frozen  hills  are  keen, 
And  all  fair  buds  have  fallen  in  decay ; 

What  joy  hath  now  the  true  knight  of  his  Queen  ? 
No  rapture  less  exultant  can  allay 

His  need,  than  softly  craves  this  faulty  lyre : 
To  answer  all  his  pleading  with  sweet  'Yea' — 

This  is  the  end  of  yearning  Love's  desire. 

Envoy 

Beloved,  now  is  done  our  life's  brief  day ; 

Not  with  the  day  howe'er  doth  Love  expire. 
Within  thine  arms  the  night  to  dream  away — 

This  is  the  end  of  Love's  supreme  desire. 


William  E.  Marshall 

To  be  remembered — to  have  your  name  engraven  not  on 
some  pompous  marble,  but  in  the  fleshly  tables  of  a  loving 
lieart — to  hare  a  gentle  light  ever  burning  before  the  inner 
shrine  of  a  human  memory,  is  the  measure  of  fame  the  wise 
man  covets.  .  .  Here  is  a  poem  of  tzventy-five  Spenserians 
celebrating  icith  simple  earnestness  an  unknozvn  man,  unknozcn 
even  to  his  contemporaries.  No  such  poem  has  appeared  in 
Canada  since  Roberts'  'Ave!'  In  dignity  and  depth  of  feeling. 
'Ave,'  DcMille's  'Behind  the  I'lH'  and  'Brookpeld'  stand  to- 
gether— a  noble  trio.  .  .  That  in  these  noisy  self-advertis- 
ing days  there  should  be  men  like  Marshall  quietly  doing  their 
duty  in  their  narrozv  spheres,  but  reaching  out  to  the  stars 
through  Literature  and  Art.  makes  for  the  nation's  moral 
health.  .  .  Perhaps  the  technique  of  the  poem  is  not 
flazAess;  but  its  heart  is  right.  Through  it  shines  a  faith  in 
man  and  God.  a  love  of  the  simple,  eternal,  unchanging  things, 
and  above  all,  the  devotion  of  a  sacred  memory.  These  rare 
qualities  make  'Brook field'  an  event  in  Canadian  literature. — 
Prof.  a.  M.  MacM  iXMI  an.  I'li.D..  in  ihc  Montreal  "Standard." 


400  AVilliam  E.  Marshall 

WILLIAM  E.  MARSHALL  was  born  in  Liverpool, 
Xova  Scotia,  April  1st,  1859, — the  youngest  of  a  family 
of  three.  His  father  was  the  late  James  Noble  Shannon  Mar- 
shall, and  his  mother,  Adelaide  Amelia  Allison.  Lie  was  edu- 
cated at  the  County  Academy,  and  at  Mt.  Allison  Collegiate 
Academy,  Sackville,  Xew  Brunswick.  In  September,  1876, 
he  entered  his  father's  law  office,  as  an  articled  student,  and 
in  January,  1881.  was  admitted  to  the  Bar.  For  the  ensuing 
years  he  practised  law,  chiefly  at  Bridgewater,  Nova  Scotia, 
until  appointed  in  ]\Iarch,  1898,  Registrar  of  Deeds  for  Lun- 
enburg District. 

Mr.  Marshall  was  married  in  Liverpool,  N.S.,  the  27th  of 
December,  1883,  to  Margaret  Jane  Bingay  Campbell,  the  third 
daughter  of  Archibald  John  Campbell  and  his  wife,  Sarah 
Budd  Moody.    They  have  a  son  and  a  daug'hter,  both  married. 

In  January,  1909,  he  published  a  collection  of  his  poems, 
entitled  A  book  of  Verse,  which  was  put  on  the  local  market 
only.     It  contains  some  fine  poetry. 

'Brookfield,'  the  poem  that  has  brought  this  author  extended 
fame,  was  first  published  in  the  April  number  of  the  University 
Magazine,  Montreal,  1914.  It  is  unquestionably  a  threnody 
of  rare  excellence — beautiful,  noble,  sweet.  It  was  inspired 
by  Marshall's  love  of  his  friend,  Robert  R.  McLeod,  a  Nova 
Scotian  graduate  of  Harvard  University,  in  Divinity,  who  died 
in  1909.  In  a  letter  to  Dr.  Andrew  McPhail,  editor  of  the 
University   Magazine,   he   says  of  him : 

As  to  what  the  man  himself  really  was,  and  what  he  accomplished 
along  the  way,  besides  getting  a  living — He  was  first  and  always  a 
Minister  of  the  tidings  of  God  revealed  to  him  in  the  ways  of  nature 
and  freedom  of  thought.  To  me  he  was  an  interpreter  of  the  truth 
and  beauty  of  Life,  a  teacher  who  sought  to  save  souls  alive,  a  power 
for  good  and  an  example  of  greatness  unto  the  people.  His  delight- 
ful 'Nature  Studies,'  his  symphony  of  prose  and  poetry  in  'Pinehurst,' 
'Markland,'  and  his  other  multifarious  writings,  have  enlarged  Nova 
Scotia.  Personally,  he  was  very  kind  and  helpful  to  me :  many 
radiant  days  and  nights  I  spent  with  him  and  his  family  in  their 
idyllic  P.rookfield  home.  And  that  my  love  is  more  than  Art  I  know 
full    well.     .     .     . 

The  explanatory  notes  accompanying  the  poem  were  sup- 
plied by  the  author. 


William  E.  Marshall  401 

Brookfield 

R.     R.     M. 

NOW  hath  a  wonder  lit  the  saddened  eyes 
Long  misted  by  a  grievous  winter  clime ; 
And  now  the  dull  heart  leaps  with  love's  surprise, 
And  sings  its  joy.     For  'tis  the  happy  time; 
And  all  the  brooding  earth  is  full  of  chime; 
And  all  the  hosts  of  sleepers  under  ground 
Have  burst  out  suddenly  in  glorious  prime; 
And  all  the  airy  spirits  now  have  found 
Their  wonted  shrines  with  life  and  love  entwined  'round. 
And  now  I  no  more  sorrow  for  the  dead, 
The  friend  I  love  hath  pain  of  death  no  more, 
He  hath  mortality  forever  shed. 
He  is  of  happiness  the  spirit's  core. 
And  my  heart's  memory  brims,  yea,  runneth  o'er. 
With  lavish  bounty  of  his  teeming  worth; 
(What  times  he  did  his  garnered  wealth  outpour, 
In  wisdom's  word  and  deed  and  pleasure's  mirth) 
Wherefore  my  soul  hath  joy  in  life's  great  freedom-birth. 
And  so,  I  mount  the  richest  .sunset  hill, 
Singing  the  wandering  echo  of  a  fame 
That  shall  forever  have  its  roaming  will 
In  love-awakened  hearts  where  dwells  the  name 
Of  him  whose  genius,  burning  to  high  flame, 
Was  reared  within  these  woods  with  spark  divine. 
Brookfield !     Thy  beauty  slept,  until  he  came 
To  wake  thee  up  to  visions  that  were  thine 
Hadst  thou  but  dreamed  what  lay  beyond  the  rule  and  line. 
Hadst  thou  but  dreamed!    Ah,  dreamers  'neath  the  blue 
Of  day,  the  dreamers  in  the  starry  night. 
Pillowed  on  stone  and  kissed  by  sun  and  dew ! 
On  ye,  the  ardours  of  the  Infinite 
Descend  in  winged  raptures,  and  the  light 
Of  Heav'n  stirreth  to  bliss  each  mortal  pain. 
Wide  opening  dreaming  eyes  in  spirit  sight ! — 
Alas !  how  many  waken  up  again, 
Singing  their  ecstasy  unto  the  wind  and  rain. 
Behold,  one  cometh  in  the  spirit  now ! — * 
*McPherson. 


402  William  E.  Marshall 

A  wraith  of  tender,  melancholy  song — 

The  once  familiar  friend  of  bird,  and  bough. 

And  flower,  and  brook,  and  meadow.     Not  for  long 

He  wandered  with  the  meagre,  vagrant  throng 

Of  shepherds  piping  in  the  early  day. 

Death  mocked  his  young  heart-ease ;  and  soon  among 

Forgotten  things  a  woeful  shepherd  lay: 

And  soon  the  melody  grew  faint  and  died  away. 

On  yonder  hill,  close  to  a  great  high  road, 

Made  by  the  pioneers  from  sea  to  sea, 

The  Poet  lay,  unheeded; — and  the  load 

Upon  his  broken  heart  sank  heavily 

With  cattle's  tread,  and  withered  grew  the  tree 

That  bent  o'er  him,  and  dwindled  to  a  path 

The  great  highway  that  was  so  wide  and  free ; — 

Only  a  chance-hewn  stone  of  poorest  worth 

Clung  like  a  widowed  love  to  his  dead,  buried  earth. 

We  know  his  fellow-shepherds  cried  to  Heaven, 

And  thrilled  the  winds  with  their  melodious  loss; 

And  doubtless,  some  late-straying  sheep  were  driven. 

By  that   rude,  wailing  music's  urge,  to  cross 

The  moonlit  stream  and  crop  the  golden  moss ; 

And  evermore  were  changed  from  sheep  to  man, 

And  evermore  cared  not  for  wordly  dross, 

And  evermore  heard  call  of  Spring,  and  ran 

Into  the  joyous  woods  to  follow  after  Pan. 

And  He,  our  freedom's  guide,  our  Spirit's  friend. 

Had  more  than  loving  word  for  that  lone  grave, 

Where  homing  neighbour  never  came  to  lend 

It  presence.     His  warm  heart  was  moved  to  save. 

From  utter,  last  neglect,  a  name  that  gave 

The  grace  of  life  in  songs  now  little  read. 

Since  other  ease  of  heart  we  most  do  crave. 

Dear  Friend !  Whose  love  our  weak  remembrance  fed. 

Thou  gav'st  our  silent  bard  a  home  among  the  dead.* 

Among  the  mounds  of  love — no  more  alone — 

With  charity  of  marble  at  his  head, 

And,  clinging  to  his  feet,  that  poor,  chance  stone, 

*McLeod    collected    money    and    had    McPherson's    remains    trans- 
ferred to  North  Brookfield  churchyard,  and  a  monument  erected. 


William  E.  Marshnll  ^^^'^ 


Now,  in  the  churchyard,  rests  the  long  lost  dead. 

What  though  his  coming  was  unheralded 

With  pomp  and  praise,  he  hath  his  meed  of  earth ; 

And  on  his  grave  the  flowers  he  loved  are  spread, 

And  many  a  kindly  eye  will  read  his  worth, 

And  sometimes  there  the  heart  of  love  be  poured  forth. 

Lo!  now,  another  comes  to  swell  the  praise  :t 

He  bringeth  far-off  memory  of  the  sea, 

And  of  the  pathless  woods'  alluring  maze, 

And  of  the  ringing  ax,  and  crashing  tree, 

And  first  log  hut,  and  brush  fire  setting  free 

The  age-imprisoned  soil  to  ease  the  needs 

That  crown  the  pioneer's  hard  destiny. 

Haply,  the  warring  world  no  braver  breeds, 

Than  he  who  turns  a  forest  into  waving  meads. 

Yet  still  we  sing:  Saul  hath  his  thousands  slain, 

And  David  tens  of  thousands!     As  of  old. 

We  make  great  holiday  of  bloodiest  gain, 

And  wreathe  the  shining  victor's  head  with  gold. 

And  bless  his  gory  trophies,  and  unfold 

Them  in  Love's  sacred  temple,  and  outpour 

Loud  gratitude  to  God — that  didst  uphold 

Our  hands  to  kill  our  brother  man  in  war. 

Ah !    Christ  is  dead, — and  we  the  Roman  Guard  adore. 

But  see  this  happy  village  festival,^ 

Where  all  the  country  folk  are  gathered  round 

Responsive  to  the  clear,  vibrating  call 

Of  one  uplifted  voice, — whose  echoes  sound 

Above  the  hill-tops  now.     This  toil-won  ground 

Is  holy ;  here  the  burning  bush  flamed  high 

One  hundred  years  ago,  when  faith  was  crowned 

In  the  first  settler's  log  hut  built  near  by, 

And  love,  in  that  rude  home,  was  blessed  with  children's  cry. 

Not  that  the  Venturer  grew  rich  or  great. 

Or  seemed  a  hero  or  was  honoured  more 

By  those  who  followed  him  to  conquer  fate 

fWilliam   Burke,   first  settler  in  Brookfield. 

JThe  Burke  Centennial  Festival,  the  proceeds  of  which  we  used 
for  a  Burke  monument  of  red  granite.  McLeod  was  the  originator  and 
had  charge  of  ail  these  proceedings. 


iOi  William  E.  Marshall 

In  the  far  wilderness ;  nor  that  he  bore 

Himself  as  one  who  paid  for  other's  score ; 

But  that  among  the  forest  immigrants, 

He  was  the  first  life-bringer  to  explore 

These  hills,  where  the  shy  Indian  had  his  haunts, 

And  prove  the  settler's  w^orth,  beyond  the  body's  wants. 

And  it  was  well  the  body's  wants  were  few, 

To  those  who  made  the  homes  here — day  by  day 

ToiHng  and  sweating  while  they  hacked  and  slew 

The  forest,  burned  the  brush,  and  cleared  away 

For  garden  patch  and  grain,  and  flax  and  hay, — 

But  ah !  the  wives  in  rudest  suffering  strong ! 

Little  of  rest  there  was  for  such  as  they, 

Little  save  care,  ev'n  in  the  baby  song 

They  crooned,  in  midst  of  work  for  all  the  household  throng. 

And  yet  they  were  not  sad — these  pioneers : 

(Tales  have  been  told  of  humour  all  their  own. 

And  of  their  wit  that  crackled  unawares, 

And  of  their  sturdy  way,  and  look,  and  tone. 

And  high  assurance  when  their  work  was  done.) 

Surely,  for  them,  the  thrush  at  evening  sang, 

The  Pleiades  and  great  Orion  shone, 

And  the  life-giving  sun  in  splendour  sprang, 

And  the  glad  harvest  moon  her  golden  lamp  did  hang. 

Long  years  ago,  they  went  to  take  their  rest 

Beneath  the  spreading  trees  on  yonder  hill — 

The  field  they  cleared  for  use  at  God's  behest, 

And  where  the  quiet  tenants  of  his  will 

Are  undisturbed  of  any  joy  or  ill. 

And  here  and  there,  white  stones  with  carven  name 

Tell  who  lies  covered  up,  forever  still: 

But  the  First  Settler  has  a  shaft  of  flame 

Reared  by  the  villagers  unto  his  worth  and  fame. 

Since  then  the  years  have  flown,  flown  like  the  wind 

That  passeth  o'er  this  hill,  laden  with  life. 

This  is  the  hill  where  I  was  sure  to  find 

My  friend  in  days  of  old.     Here,  I  am  rife 

In  freedom — not  from  the  surcease  of  strife 

Of  God  with  man  (Lord,  Lord,  cease  not  with  me!) 

But  from  the  bloodless  Fate  with  hidden  knife, 


William  E.  Marshall  4<^^ 


Shearing  the  heart  aspiring  to  be  free 

Of  lust  and  greed  and  self,  whate'er  the  prize  may  be. 

/  zuill  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills, 
Whence  cometh  help!     My  help  is  in  the  Lord! 
Behold,  O  man,  what  is  it  that  He  wills 
Of  thee !     But  to  do  justice  in  accord. 
And  to  love  mercy  better  than  the  sword, 
And  to  walk  humbly  in  the  sight  of  Him : 
Thus,   is  the   olden   vision   still   outpoured 
Upon  the  hills,  for  all  whose  eyes  are  dim 
With  seeking  in  the  places  where  the  bale-fires  swim. 
Thus,  am  I  in  the  spirit  with  my  friend, 
Here  in  the  village  which  he  glorified; 
And  unto  which  his  heart  would  always  wend, — 
Impatient  of  the  world  of  human  tide — 
When  Spring  began  to  call  him  to  her  side 
With  robin's  song  and  the  arbutus  trail. 
And  all  the  lure  of  freedom  undenied. 
And  all  the  wistful  life  of  hill  and  dale, 
And  river,  lake,  and  stream,  and  love  that  would  not  fail. 
And  as  he  roamed  the  shores  and  woods  and  clears, — 
Seeking,  for  aye,  the  bloom  of  yesterdays — 
The  mayflowers  smiled  and  lent  their  sweetest  airs, 
And  violets  curtsied  from  the  road-side  ways; 
The  red-veined  slippers  of  the  elves  and  fays 
Were  hanging  near  the  rose  and  eglantine, 
And  mystic  trilliums  still  did  heavenward  gaze; 
The  blue  flags  waved,  and  lilies  gan  to  shine; 
The  golden-rods  and  asters  thronged  the  steep  incline. 
And  something  of  that  bloom  was  shown  for  me. 
One  eager  day,  when  the  Rhodora  flamed 
Her  leafless  beauty  on  us  suddenly 
Down  in  an  old-time  pasture  road,  and  claimed 
A  first  love's  privilege,  and  was  not  shamed: 
My  friend  had  fondest  greeting  for  the  flower, 
And  gentlest  love-speech  ever  poet  framed  ;* 
And  all  my  vagrant  heart  was  stayed,  with  power 
Of  love  I  never  knew,  until  I  shared  his  dower. 
♦This   actually   occurred.     McLeod   recited  Rhodora. 


406  William  E.  Marshall 

Ah,  he  was  richly  dowered  of  the  earth ! 

The  grain  of  sand,  the  daisy  in  the  sod, 

Awoke  his  heart;  and  early  he  went  forth, 

Through  field  and  wood,  with  young-  eyes  all  abroad ; 

And  saw  the  nesting  birds,  and  beck  and  nod 

Of  little  creatures  running  wild  and  free, 

Which  know  not  that  they  know,  yet  are  of  God ! 

And  kept  his  youth,  and  grew  in  sympathy. 

And  loved  his  fellows  more,  and  had  love's  victory. 

To  such  as  heard,  he  was  an  answerer 

Of  things  that  lay  outside  the  rule  and  line. 

To  those  who  loved,  the  follower  of  a  star 

That  led  him  on  and  on  with  heavenly  sign, 

And  lit  his  soul,  and  made  his  utterance  shine ; 

So  he  went  forth  to  many  in  his  day : 

And  when  he  passed  beyond  at  Sun's  decline, 

Some  who  had  never  seen  him  caught  the  ray ; 

And  some  came  then  to  praise  who  could  have  cheered  his  way. 

There  is  the  little  cabin  in  the  tree,f 
Where  sometimes  he  would  go  for  solitude, 
And  ease  of  heart,  and  thoughtful  reverie, 
And  rain  upon  the  roof,  and  dreamy  mood, 
And  light  the  world  hath  never  understood. 
Ah  me !  the  door  is  broken  now,  and  wide : 
And  yet,  I  feel  as  if  it  might  intrude 
Upon  a  resting  soul  to  look  inside ; — 
Such  is  the  quietness  and  lack  of  earthly  pride. 

O  Friend !  who  so  didst  joy  of  knowledge  use, 
That  men  look  up  and  brighten  at  thy  name, 
And  speak  of  genius,  and  put  by  the  news 
To  tell  some  good  of  one  death  cannot  claim. 
Nor  Ufe  require  to  read  in  sculptured  fame. 
The  wind  upon  the  hill  hath  sweetest  hush ; 
The  day  is  melting  into  tenderest  flame ; 
And  from  the  valley,  where  the  waters  rush, 
Comes  up  the  evensong  of  the  lone  hermit-thrush. 

tMcLeod  built  it  himself,  in  a  great  pine  tree  back  of  his  house. 


^^:^;£S 


.••:^ 


\:J 


M 


Norah  M.  Holland 

Linked  close  by  lies  of  blood  to  IreUnid.  ichere  the  veil  is 
thin  between  the  earth  and  the  spirit  world,  and  the  fairy 
rings  upon  the  grass  attest  the  fairy  rex'cls,  Xorah  Holland 
innst  Inn'c  early  glimpsed  the  z'ision  of  the  Unseen  things 
and  kiurwn  them  for  the  Real,  and  been  made  free  of  the 
country  which  lies  behind  the  gates  of  gold  and  iz'ory  where 
the  fairy  folk  welcome  the  children,  and  their  elders  zcho 
keep  a  childlike  heart But  this  singer  of  Cana- 
dian birth  and  nurturing  has  tender  care  also  for  the  little 
things  of  earth,  and  her  dog's  devotion  and  the  dancing  feet 

of  Kitty  OWeil  are  dear  to  her Her  verses  shozc 

that  she  has  encountered  sorrow  and  niet  the  trials  of  a  toil- 
ing world,  but  these  have  never  checked  the  play  of  hum- 
our, zi'hich  dances  irrepressibly  aniong  them,  >ior  clouded  a 
clarity  of  judg)ne)it  as  shrez^'d  and  guileless  as  a  child's.  The 
hand  of  Materialism  has  never  touched  her,  and  there  is  none 
of  the  soil  of  sordidiiess  upon  her  garments. — Ckcilia  Marv 
White,  of  'The  Globe,'  Toronto. 

[407] 


408  Xorali  M.  Holland 


HU\\  interesting-  to  know  that  among-  Canada's  women 
poets  is  a  cousin  of  W.  B.  Yeats, — ]\Iiss  Norah  Mary 
Holland,  a  native  Canadian,  born  at  Collingwood.  Ontario, 
and.  since  1889,  a  resident  of  Toronto. 

Miss  Holland's  mother  (deceased),  nee  Elizabeth  Yeats,  was 
a  iirst  cousin  of  the  Irish  poet,  and  her  eldest  daughter's  lyrical 
gift  is  akin  to  that  of  the  distinguished  relative.  From  her 
father,  :\Ir.  John  H.  Holland,  she  also  inherits  poetic  talent, 
as  he  is  a  nephew  of  the  late  Chief  Justice  Hagarty. 

Miss  Holland  was  educated  in  the  public  school  and  the 
collegiate  institute  of  Port  Dover,  and  in  the  Parkdale  col- 
legiate of  Toronto. 

Until  recently  she  was  for  eight  years  employed  as  a  reader 
by  the  Dominion  Press  Clipping  Bureau,  but  is  now  on  the 
stafT  of  Tlic  Daily  Nezvs,  Toronto. 

In  1904.  she  toured  on  foot  the  whole  of  the  south  and 
west  of  Ireland,  and  a  considerable  portion  of  England ;  and 
while  she  was  a  guest  of  the  father  of  W.  B.  Yeats,  he  made 
the  crayon  sketch  reproduced  on  the  preceding  page. 

The  old  homes  of  both  families  from  which  she  has  sprung 
are  in  Sligo  County,  Ireland. 

'Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad'  comes  from  the  heart,  as 
Miss  Holland  has  two  brothers  at  the  Front. 

To  W.  B.  Yeats 

A    WIND  of  dreams  comes  singing  over  sea. 
From  where  the  white  waves  kiss  the  coasts  of  home. 
Bringing  upon  its  rainbow  wings  to  me 

Glimpses  of  days  gone  by. 
Of  wastes  of  water,  where  the  sea-gulls  cry 
Above  the  sounding  foam. 

Or  through  the  mists  do  Finn  and  Usheen  ride 
With  all  their  men  along  some  faery  shore. 

While   Bran   and   Sgeolan   follow   at  their   side, 
Adown  the  shadowy  track. 

Till  in  the  sunset  Caoilte's  hair  blows  liack, 
Aufl  Xiamh  calls  once  more. 

Or  the  brown  l-ecs  hum  through  the  drowsy  day 
In  glades  of   fnisfree,  where  sunlig'hl  glean-is. 


Norah  M.  Holland  ^09 

The  bean-flower  scents  attain  the  dear  old  way, 

Once  more  the  turf  fire  burns, 
The  memory  of  the  long  dead  past  returns 

Borne  on  that  wind  of  dreams. 

The  Unchristened  Child 

A  J.ANNA!  Alanna!   Within  tlic  churchyard's  round 
There's  many  graves  of  childer  there ;  they  lie  in  holy 
ground. 
But  yours  is  on  the  mountain  side  beneath  the  hawthorn  tree, 
O  sweet  one,  my  fleet  one,  that's  gone  so  far  from  me. 

Alanna !  Alanna !  When  that  small  mound  was  made 

No  mass  was  sung,  no  bell  was  rung,  no  priest  above  it  prayed ; 

Unchristened  childer's  souls  they  say  may  ne'er  see  Heaven's 

light— 
O  lone  one,  my  own  one,  where  strays  your  soul  to-night? 

Alanna !  Alanna !  This  life's  a  weary  one. 

And  there's  little  time  for  thinkin'  when  the  hours  of  work 

are  done, 
And  the  others  have  forgotten,  but  there's  times  I  sit  apart, 
O  fair  one,  my  dear  one,  and  hold  you  in  my  heart. 

Alanna!  Alanna!  If  I  were  Mary  mild 

And  heard  outside  the  gates  of  Heaven  a  little  cryin'  child. 

What  though  its  brow  the  chrisom  lacked,  I'd  lift  the  golden 

pin, 
O  bright  one,  my  white  one,  and  bid  you  enter  in. 

Alanna !  Alanna !  The  mountain  side  is  bare. 

And  the  winds  they  do  be  blowing  and  the  snows  be  lying 

there, 
And    unchristened    childer's    souls,    they    say,    may    ne'er    see 

Heaven's  light, 
O  lone  one,  my  own  one,  where  strays  your  soul  to-night? 

The  King  of  Erin's  Daughter 

THE  King  of  Erin's  Daughter  had   wind-blown  hair  and 
bright. 
The  King  of  Erin's  Daughter,  her  eyes  were  like  the  sea ; 
21 


*10  Norah  M.  Holland 

(O  Rose  of  all  the  roses,  have  you  forgotten  quite 
The  story  of  the  days  of  old  that  once  you  told  to  me?) 

The  King  of  Erin's  Daughter  went  up  the  mountain  side 
And  who  but  she  was  singing  as  she  went  upon  her  way, 
'O  somewhere  waits  a  King's  Son  and  I  shall  be  his  bride, 
And  tall  he  is  and  fair  he  is  and  none  shall  say  him  nay.' 

The  King  of  Erin's  Daughter — O  fair  was  she  and  sweet — 
Went  laughing  up  the  mountain  without  a  look  behind, 
Till  on  the  lofty  summit  that  lay  beneath  her  feet 
She  found  a  King's  Son  waiting  there,  his  brows  with  poppies 
twined. 

O  tall  was  he  and  fair  was  he.     He  looked  into  her  face 
And  whispered  in  her  ear  a  word  un-named  of  mortal  breath. 
And  very  still  she  rested,  clasped  close  in  his  embrace, 
The  King  of  Erin's  Daughter,  for  the  bridegroom's  name  was 
Death. 

My  Dog  and  I 

MY  dog  and  I,  the  hills  we  know 
Where  the  first  faint  wild  roses  blow, 
We  know  the  shadowy  paths  and  cool 
That  wind  across  the  woodland  dim, 
And  where  the  water  beetles  swim 
Upon  the  surface  of  the  pool. 

My  dog  and  I,  our  feet  brush  through 
Full  oft  the  fragrant  morning  dew, 

Or  when  the  summer  sun  is  high 
We  ling'er  where  the  river  flows. 
Chattering  and  chuckling  as  it  goes, 

Two  happy  tramps,  my  dog  and  I. 

Or,  when  the  winter  snows  are  deep, 
Into  some  fire-lit  nook  we  creep 

And,  while  the  north  wind  howls  outside. 
See  castles  in  the  dancing  blaze. 
Or,  dozing,  dream  of  summer  days 

And  woodland  stretches,  wild  and  wide. 

My  dog  and  I  are  friends  till  death. 
And  when  the  chill,  dark  angel's  breath 
Shall  call  him  from  me,  still  I  know 


Xoial)   M.  irollaiid  411 

Somewhere   within   the  shadowy   land 
Waiting  his  master  he  will  stand 
Until  my  summons  comes  to  go. 

And,  in  that  life  so  strange  and  new, 
We'll  tramp  the  fields  of  heaven  through. 

Loiter  the  crystal  river  by, 
Together  walk  the  hills  of  God 
As  when  the  hills  of  earth   we  trod, 

Forever  friends,  my  dog'  and  I. 

Cradle  Song 

LITTLE  brown  feet,  that  have  grown  so  weary 
Plodding  on  through  the  heat  of  day. 
Mother  will  hold  you,  mother  will  fold  you 
Safe  to  her  breast ;  little  feet,  rest ; 
Now  is  the  time  to  cease  from  play. 

Little  brown  hands,  that  through  day's  long  hours 

Never  rested,  be  still  at  last ; 
Mother  will  rest  you;  come,  then,  and  nest  you 
Here  by  her  side,  nestle  and  hide; 

Creep  to  her  heart  and  hold  it  fast. 

Little  brown  head,  on  my  shoulder  lying, 

Night  is  falling  and  day  is  dead ; 
Mother  will  sing  you  songs  that  shall  bring  you 
Childhood's  soft  sleep,  quiet  and  deep ; 

Sweet  be  your  dreams,  O  dear  brown  head ! 

Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad 

APRIL  in  England — daffodils  are  growing 
Liy  every  wayside,  golden,  tall  and  fair ; 
April — and  all  the  little  winds  are  blowing 

The  scents  of  springtime  through  the  sunny  air. 
April  in  England — God,  that  we  were  there! 

April  in  England — and  her  sons  are  lying 

On  these  red  fields,  and  dreaming  of  her  shore ; 

April — we  hear  the  thrushes'  songs  replying 
Each  unto  each,  above  the  cannons'  roar ; 

April  in  England — shall  we  see  it  more? 


41^  Norah  M.  Holland 

April    in   England — there's   the   cuckoo   calling 
Down  in  her  meadows  where  the  cowslip  gleams ; 

April — and  little  showers  are  softly  falling, 
Dimpling  the  surface  of  her  babbling  streams ; 

April  in  England — how  the  shrapnel  screams ! 

April  in  England — blood  and  dust  and  smother, 

Screaming  of  horses,  men  in  agony. 
April — full  many  of  thy  sons,  O  Mother, 

Never  again  those  dewy  dawns  shall  see. 
April  in  England — God,  keep  England  free! 

Sea  Song 

I   WILL  go  down  to  the  sea  again,  to  the  waste  of  waters, 
wild  and  wide ; 
I  am  tired — so  tired — of  hill  and  plain  and  the  dull  tame  face 
of  the  country-side. 

I  will  go  out  across  the  bar,  with  a  swoop  like  the  flight  of 
a  sea-bird's  wings. 

To  where  the  winds  and  the  waters  are,  with  their  multitudin- 
ous thunderings. 

My  prow  shall  furrow  the  whitening  sea,  out  into  the  teeth  of 

the   lashing   wind. 
Where  a  thousand  billows  snarl  and  flee  and  break  in  a  smother 

of  foam  behind. 

0  strong  and  terrible  Mother  Sea,  let  me  lie  once  more  on 

your  cool   white  breast, 
Your  winds  have  blown  through  the  heart  of  me  and  called  me 
back  from  the  land's  dull  rest. 

For  night  by  night  they  blow  through  my  sleep,  the  voice  of 
waves  through  my  slumber  rings, 

1  feel  the  spell  of  the  steadfast  deep;  I  hear  its  tramplings 

and  triumphings. 

And  at  last  when  my  hours  of  life  are  sped  let  them  make  me 

no  grave  by  hill  or  plain, 
Thy  waves,  O  Mother,  shall  guard  my  head ;  I  will  go  down  to 

my  sea  again. 


Father  Dollard 

/;;  all  I'athcr  Dollard's  poetry  there  is  a  zcealth  of  beauty 
and  a  perfeetion  of  skill,  seldom  met  with  outside  the  pages 
of  great  composers.  To  this  beauty  and  skill  are  added  a 
refinement  of  lofty  thought  and  an  aptitude  and  delicacy  of 
expression  that,  at  once,  charm  and  delight  the  reader.  But 
it  is  when  he  sings  of  his  ozcn  native  land — of  Ireland — tJiat 
the  roice  of  his  song  touches  the  core  of  our  hearts.  Here. 
in  his  )noments  of  highest  inspiration,  his  paths  are  in  the 
laud.— TiiK  \KRV  Kk.v.  W.  R.  Harris,  LL.D. 

The  poems  of  Father  Dollard  Juwe  long  been  appreciated 
for  their  high  literary  quality,  spirituality  and  Celtic  insight. 
To  the  scholarly  touch  of  the  classicist  he  adds  the  magic  and 
vision  of  the  true  Celt.  Born  under  the  shadow  of  Slieve- 
na-mon.  dreamful  of  )nystical  lore,  Father  Dollard  zcas  early 
inspired  by  the  beauty  and  charm  and  tender  melancholy  of 
his  native  land.  Though  with  a  I'ersatile  pen  he  touclies  )nany 
themes,  his  su prone  gift  is  that  of  an  Irish  lyrist. — Lindsay 
CrawI'OKI),    in    ''I'he    Cloho,'    Toronto. 

1413] 


^1^  Father  Bollard 


THE  Rev.  James  B.  Dollard  is  Parish  Priest  of  St.  Moni- 
ca's church.  North  Toronto.  He  was  born  at  Moon- 
coin,  County  Kilkenny,  Ireland,  August  30th,  1872,  the 
young-est  son  in  a  large  family,  whose  parents  were  Michael 
and  Anastasia  (Quinn)  Dollard. 

After  taking  the  course  in  Classics  at  Kilkenny  College, 
he  sailed  in  1890  for  New  Brunswick,  where  his  brother,  the 
Rev.  William  Dollard,  was  Parish  Priest  of  St.  Stephen,  and 
his  maternal  uncle,  the  Rev.  James  Quinn,  was  Vicar-General 
of  the  Diocese  of  St.  John.  Another  relative,  the  late  Arch- 
bishop Walsh,  was  then  in  Toronto  and  young  Dollard  decided 
to  study  for  the  priesthood  in  his  Archdiocese.  He  took  the 
course  in  Philosophy  and  Theology  at  the  Grand  Seminary 
of  Montreal  and  received  from  Laval  University  the  degrees 
of  Bachelor  of  Theology  and  Bachelor  of  Canon  Law.  The 
same  University  conferred  on  him  in  1916,  the  honorary  degree 
of  Litt.D. 

Father  Dollard  was  ordained  to  the  priesthood  in  December, 
1896.  He  served  as  a  curate  in  St.  Helen's  Church,  and  St. 
Mary's  Church,  Toronto,  and  prior  to  his  present  charge,  was, 
for  nine  years,  Parish  Priest  of  Uptergrove,  Ontario,  where 
he  built  a  new  church  and  presbytery. 

His  first  book  of  verse,  Irish  Mist  and  Sunshine,  was  pub- 
lished in  1902.  and  his  second,  entitled  Poems,  in  1910.  And 
he  has  now  ready  for  publication,  a  third  and  larger  volume, 
written  in  the  last  five  years  and  containing  his  most  mature 
and  artistic  work.  This  includes  a  lengthy  drama,  Clontarf, 
the  theme  of  which  is  the  Danish  overthrow  in  Ireland. 

In  a  lecture  on  "The  War  and  the  Poets,"  delivered  in 
Toronto,  1916,  Mr.  Joyce  Kilmer,  poetry  editor  of  the  Literary 
Digest,  declared  that  Father  Dollard's  sonnet  was  the  best 
poem  that  had  appeared  on  the  death  of  Rupert  Brooke. 

Father  Dollard  is  also  author  of  a  volume  of  short  stories, 
entitled  Tlie  Gaels  of  Moondharrig. 

The  Dollards  are  descended  from  an  old  Norman  family 
who  went  to  England  with  William,  the  Conqueror,  and  later 
to  Ireland  with  the  first  English  invaders.  A  grand-uncle  of 
our  poet,  the  Right  Rev.  William  Dollard,  was  the  first  Roman 
Catholic  Bishop  of  New  Brunswick. 


Father  Dollard  415 


S' 


Rupert  Brooke 

LAIN  by  the  arrows  of  Apollo,  lo, 

'The  well-beloved  of  the   Muses  lies 
On  Lemnos'  Isle  'neath  blue  and  classic  skies, 
And  hears  th'  ^^gean  waters  ebb  and  flow ! 
How  strange  his  beauteous  soul  should  choose  to  go 
Out  from  its  body  in  this  hallowed  place, 
Where  Poesy  and  Art's  undying  grace 
Still  breathe,  and  pipes  of  Pan  still  murmur  low! 

Here  shall  he  rest  untroubled,  knowing  well 
That  faithful  hearts  shall  hold  his  memory  dear, 
Moved  to  affection  weak  words  cannot  tell 
By  his  short,  splendid  life  that  knew  no  fear; 
Beloved  of  the  gods,  the  gods  have  ta'en 
Their  Ganymede,  by  bright  Apollo  slain ! 

The  Haunted  Hazel 

A  DOWN  a  quiet  glen  where  the  gowan-berries  glisten 
And  the  linnet,  shyest  bird  of  all,  his  wild  note  warbles 
free ; 
Where  the  scented  woodbine-blossoms,  o'er  the  brooklet,  bend 

to  listen, 
There  stands  upon  a  mossy  bank,  a  white-hazel  tree. 

Oh !  fair  it  is  to  view,  when  the  zephyr  rustles  lightly, 

And    warm    sunlig'ht    glances    back    from    polished    bole    and 

branch ; 
For   then    like   wavelets   on   a    rill   the   pendent   leaves   flash 

brightly. 
And   daisies  nod  in  concert,   round  the  column   straight   and 

staunch. 

But  when  the  day  is  ended,  and  the  solemn  moon  is  shining, 
And  shadows  grim  and  ghostly,  fall  on  grove  and  glen  and  lea, 
Then  godless  elves  their  fairy  paths  with  glow-worm  lamps 

are  lining, 
And  potent  spells  of  magic  bind  this  white-hazel  tree ! 

For  from  their  gorgeous  palaces  the  fairy  bands  come  stealing, 
To  dance  in  sportive  circles  on  the  never  bending  moss ; 
And  the  velvet-soft  caressing  of  their  finger-touches  healing. 
Brings  to  the  sere  white-hazel  bark  again  its  youthful  gloss. 


116  Father  Bollard 


And  round  and  round  they  skip  and  glide,  in  strange  fantastic 

measure, 
To  weird,  unhallowed  melodies  of  fairy  minstrelsy, 
Yet  mortal  ear  may  never  hear  those  sounds  of  elfin  pleasure, 
And  no  whisper  of  its  secrets  gives  the  white-hazel  tree ! 

But  should  the  peasant  wander  nigh  that  baleful  bower,  un- 
thinking, 
And  sudden  feel  the  chilling  of  the  haunted  hazel's  shade, 
A  nameless  horror  seizes  on  his  spirit,  bowed  and  shrinking. 
And  making  oft  the  Holy  Sign,  he  hurries  home  dismayed. 

For  maid  that  treads  the  path  of  doom  beneath  the  hazel's 

shadow, 
Shall  be  the  bride  of  Death,  they  say,  before  a  month  has  flown ; 
And  laughing  swain,  in  pride  of  strength,  who  crossed  at  eve 

the  meadow, 
Shall  moulder  'neath  the  matted  moss,  e'er  yet  that  mead  is 

mown ! 

So,  in  the  solemn  hours  of  night  the  fairies  dance  unharmed. 
Till  thro'  gray  dawn  the  haggard  moon  her  waning  span  doth 

dree, 
Then   from   the  blessed   sunbeam    flies   the    evil    power   that 

charmed, 
And  fairy  spell  is  lifted  from  the  white-hazel  tree ! 

The  Fairy  Harpers 

AS  I  walked  the  heights  of  Meelin  on  a  tranquil  autumn 
day, 
The  fairy  host  came  stealing  o'er  the  distant  moorland  gray. 
I  heard  like  sweet  bells  ringing. 
Or  a  grove  of  linnets  singing, 
And  the  haunting,  wailful  music  that  the  fairy  harpers  play ! 

Like  thunder  of  deep  waters  when  vast-heaving  billows  break, 
Like  soughing  of  the  forest  when  ten  thousand  branches  shake, 

Like  moaning  of  the  wind. 

When  the  night  falls  bleak  and  blind, 
So  wild  and  weird  the  melodies  the  fairy  minstrels  make. 


Father  Dollaid  ii7 


The  sunbeams  flecked  the  valley,  and  the  cloud-shades  ranged 

the  hill, 
The  thistle-down  scarce  drifted  in  the  air  so  calm  and  still. 

But  along'  the  slopes  of  Meelin 

Came  the  ghostly  music  pealing, 
With  sad  and  fitful  cadences  that  set  my  soul  a-thrill ! 

Then  wan  and  wistful  grew  the  sky  o'er  Meelin's  summit  lone. 
And  weeping  for  the  days  gone  by,  my  heart  grew  cold  as 
stone, 
For  I  heard  loved  voices  calling 
Beyond  the  sunlight  falling 
On  Meelin's  mournful  mountain  where  the  magic  harps  make 
moan ! 

At  Dead  o'  the  Night,  Alanna 

AT  dead  o'  the  night,  alanna,  I  wake  and  see  you  there. 
Your  little  head  on  the  pillow,  with  tossed  and  tangled 
hair; 
I  am  your  mother,  acushla,  and  you  are  my  heart's  own  boy, 
And  wealth  o'  the  world  I'd  barter  to  shield  you  from  annoy. 

At  dead  o'  the  night,  alanna,  the  heart  o'  the  world  is  still, 
But  sobbing  o'  fairy  music  comes  down  the  haunted  hill ; 
The  march  o'  the  fairy  armies  troubles  the  peace  o'  the  air, 
Blest  angels  shelter  my  darling  for  power  of  a  mother's  pray'r ! 

At  dead  o'  the  night,  alanna,  the  sleepless  Banshee  moans, 
Wailing  for  sin  and  sorrow,  by  the  Cairn's  crumbling  stones, 
At  dead  o'  the  night,  alanna,  I  ask  of  our  God  above. 
To  shield  you  from  sin  and  sorrow,  and  cherish  you  in  His 
love. 

At  dead  o'  the  night,  alanna.  I  wonder  o'er  and  o'er, 

Shall  you  part  from  our  holy  Ireland,  to  die  on  a  stranger 

shore  ? 
You'll  break  my  heart  in  the  leaving  like  many  a  mother  I 

know — 
Just  God  look  down  upon  Erin  and  lift  her  at  last  from  woe! 

At  dead  o'  the  night,  alanna,  I  see  you  in  future  years. 
Grand  in  your  strength,  and  noble,  facing  the  wide  world  fears ; 


418  Father  Dollard 


Though  down  in  the  mossy  churchyard  my  bones  be  under  the 

sod, 
My  spirit  shall  watch  you,  darling,  till  you  come  to  your  rest 

in  God ! 

Ballad  of  the  Banshee 

BACK  thro'  the  hills  I  hurried  home, 
Ever  my  boding  soul  would  say : 
'Mother  and  sister  bid  thee  come, 
Long,  too  long  has  been  thy  stay.' 

Stars  shone  out,  but  the  moon  was  pale. 
Touched  by  a  black  cloud's  ragged  rim. 

Sudden  I  heard  the  Banshee's  wail 

Where  Malmor's  war-tower  rises  grim. 

Quickly  I  strode  across  the  slope, 

Passed  the  grove  and  the  Fairy  Mound 

(Gloomy  the  moat  where  blind  owls  mope) 
Scarcely  breathing,  I  glanced  around. 

Mother  of  mercy !  there  she  sat, 

A  woman  clad  in  a  snow-white  shroud. 

Streamed  her  hair  to  the  damp  moss-mat, 
White  the  face  on  her  bosom  bowed ! 

'Spirit  of  Woe'  I  eager  cried, 

'Tell  me  none  that  I  love  has  gone, 

Cold  is  the  grave' — my  accents  died — 
The  Banshee  lifted  her  face  so  wan. 

Pale  and  wan  as  the  waning  moon, 

Seen  when  the  sun-spears  hercild  dawn. 

Ceased  all  sudden  her  dreary  croon, 
Full  on  my  own  her  wild  eyes  shone. 

Burned  and  seared  my  inmost  soul. 

(When  shall  sorrow  depart  from  me?) 
Black-winged  terror  upon  me  stole, 

Blindly  gaping,  I  turned  to  flee ! 

Back  by  the  grove  and  haunted  mound, 
O'er  the  lone  road  I  know  not  how, 


Father  Dollard  ^''^ 

Hearkened  afar  my  baying  hound 
Home  at  last  at  the  low  hill's  brow! 

Lone  the  cottage — the  door  flung  wide, 
Four  lights  burned — oh,  sight  of  dread! 
Breathing  a  prayer,  1  rushed  inside, 
'Mercy,  God!'  'twas  my  mother,  dead! 

Dead  and  white  as  the  fallen  leaf, 

(Kneeling,  my  sister  prayed  near  by), 

Wild  as  I  wrestled  with  my  grief, 

Far  and  faint  came  the  Banshee's  cry ! 

The  Passing  of  the  Sidhe 

THERE  is  weeping  on  Cnoc-Aulin  and  on  hoary  Slieve-na- 
men, 
There's  a  weary  wind  careering  over  haggard  Knocknaree; 
By  the  broken  mound  of  Almhin 
Sad  as  death  the  voices  calling, 
Calling  ever,  wailing  ever,  for  the  passing  of  the  Sidhe. 

Where  the  hunting-call  of  Ossian  waked  the  woods  of  Glen-na 

mar, 
Where  the  Fianna's  hoarse  cheering  silenced  noisy  Assaroe, 

Like  the  homing  swallows  meeting. 

Like  a  beaten  host  retreating, 
Hear  them  sobbing  as  they  hurry  from  the  hills  they  used  to 

know ! 
There's  a  haunted  hazel  standing  on  a  grim  and  gloomy  scaur. 
Tossing  ceaselessly  its  branches  like  a  keener  o'er  the  dead ; 

Deep  around  it  press  the  masses 

Of  the  Sluagh-shee*  that  passes 
To  the  moan  of  fairy  music  timing  well  their  muffled  tread. 

Came  a  wail  of  mortal  anguish  o'er  the  night-enshrouded  sea. 
Sudden  death  o'ertook  the  aged  while  the  infant  cried  in  fear, 

And  the  dreamers  on  their  pillows 

Heard  the  beat  of  bursting  billows. 
And  the  rumble  and  the  rhythm  of  an  army  passing  near. 
*  Pronounced  Slua  Shee— The  Fairy  Army. 


t20  Father  Bollard 


They  have  left  the  unbelieving — past  and  gone  their  gentle 

sway, 
Lonely  now  the  rath  enchanted,  eerie  glen  and  wild  crannoge; 
But  the   sad  winds,   unforgetting, 
Call  them  back  with  poignant  fretting, 
Snatching  songs  of  elfin  sorrow  from  the  streams  of  Tir-na- 
n-Og. 

Ould  Kilkinny 

I'M  sick  o'  New  York  City  an'  the  roarin'  o'  the  thrains 
That  rowl  above  the  blessed  roofs  an'  undernaith  the  dhrains ; 
Wid  dust  an'  smoke  an'   divilmint  I'm   moidhered  head  an' 
brains. 
An'  I  thinkin'  o'  the  skies  of  ould  Kilkinny! 

Bad  luck  to  Owen  Morahan  that  sint  the  passage-note 
'Tis  he's  the  cause,  the  omadhaun,  I  ever  tuk  the  boat ; 
'Tis  he's  the  cause  I'm  weepin'  here,  a  dhrayman  on  a  float, 
When  I  should  be  savin'  hay  in  ould  Kilkinny! 

The  sorra  bit  o'  grassy  field  from  morn  till  night  I  see. 
Nor  e'er  a  lark  or  linnet — not  to  mind  a  weeshy  bee! 
Och!  an'  honest  Irish  mountain  now  would  lift  the  heart  o' 
me, — 
Will  I   ever  see  the  hills  of  ould  Kilkinny? 

The  rattle  on  the  pavement-blocks  is  fit  to  make  you  cry, 
A  hundhert  snortin'  carriages  like  fire  an'  brimstone  fly ; 
Tin  thousant  people  tearin'  wild,  black  sthrangers  pass  me  by. 
An'  to  think  I  left  me  f rinds  in  ould  Kilkinny ! 

'Tis  well  me  lovin'  parents  all  are  in  their  cofifin-shrouds, 
'Twould  break  their  hearts  to  see  their  boy  half-smothered  in 

these  crowds, 
Wid  buildin's  all  around  that  high  they're  berrid  in  the  clouds, 
When  the  little  cot  would  suit  him  in  Kilkinny! 

Bad  luck  to  Owen  Morahan,  if  I'd  the  passage  back, 
'Tis  shortly  I'd  be  home  agin  across  the  ocean  thrack  : 
I'd  not  delay  in  Queenstown,  an'  I'd  fly  through  Ballyhack, 
For  to  greet  the  neighbours  kind  in  ould  Kilkinny! 


Laura  E.  McCully 

Miss  McCitlly's  puctry  is  enriched  by  classical  illustrations, 
and  expressed  in  forceful  and  melodious  language.  Her  i)n- 
aginatioii  relates  us  to  the  uniz'erse  and  to  humanity.  ITords- 
ivorth  found  nezv  lessons  in  the  fields  and  ■:\.'oods.  and  taught 
them;  Lanier  made  trees,  flowers  and  clouds  our  intimate 
friends;  when  lee  read  Miss  McCully's  nature  poems  ice  are 
not  co>iscious  of  the  moralising  of  the  poet,  zee  are  in  the  glens 
ourselves  listoiing  to  the  bird-songs  or  pine  psalms,  or  o)i 
the  hill-top  looking  at  the  aftergloiv,  with  the  purity,  the  glory, 
the  grozvth  spirit  and  the  transforming  beauty  of  nature  flow- 
ing into  our  liz'cs.  In  a  few  flaming  lines  her  stories  reveal 
the  love,  the  despair  and  the  ultimately  triumphant  faith  of 
humanity.  With  tender  pathos  she  unveils  the  evils  of  social 
a)ui  industrial  conditions,  and  in  clear  tones  arouses  each  soul, 
and  niakes  it  co>iscious  of  the  splendour  of  the  better  condi- 
tio)is  ahead,  and  thrills  it  leitli  the  determination  to  achieve 
for  justice,  freedom  and  truth. —  JamKS  L.  Hughks.  LL.D. 


[421] 


^■2-2  Laura  E.  McCiilly 

IX  a  very  real  sense  Miss  Laura  Elizabeth  McCuUy,  M.A., 
is  a  Toronto  writer,  as,  with  the  exception  of  one  academic 
year  in  the  United  States,  and  a  few  months  in  Ottawa,  she 
has  lived  all  her  life  in  this  city. 

She  is  a  grand  niece  of  the  late  Hon.  John  McCully,  of 
Truro,  Nova  Scotia,  one  of  the  Fathers  of  Confederation ;  and 
is  the  daughter  of  Samuel  Edward  McCully,  M.D.,  and  Helen 
(Fitzgibbon)  McCully.  Her  father  is  of  Manx  descent,  and 
her  mother  is  a  descendant  of  the  late  James  McBride,  of 
Halton  county,  Ontario,  magistrate,  who  was  one  of  the  pio- 
neers of  this  province,  and  who  heroically  cleared  off  forest 
and  left  to  his  heirs,  one  thousand  acres  of  valuable  farm 
lands. 

Miss  McCully  was  educated  at  Deer  Park  Public  School, 
Jarvis  Collegiate,  and  University  College.  Throughout  her 
University  course  she  stood  high  in  the  class  lists,  and  gradu- 
ated in  1909  with  first-class  honours  in  English,  History, 
French  and  German.  She  was  and  is  particularly  attracted 
to  the  ancient  Anglo-Saxon  language  and  her  written  theses 
on  this  branch  of  study,  together  with  the  recommendation  of 
her  teacher,  Professor  David  Keyes,  M.A.,  procured  for  her  a 
Fellowship  in  Yale  College.  In  this  Institution  she  studied 
for  an  academic  year  (1909-10)  under  the  well-known  author 
of  text-books  in  Anglo-Saxon,  Dr.  Albert  S.  Cooke. 

Miss  McCully  is  proficient  in  athletics  ;  and  is  an  ardent  ad- 
vocate of  the  rights  of  women,  political,  professional  and  in- 
dustrial. She  has  firm  belief  that  this  century  will  fully  esta- 
blish equality  of  sex  and  of  racial  responsibility. 

She  began  her  poetical  career  by  winning  in  her  teens 
several  prizes  offered  by  the  Young  People's  Corner  of  the 
Mail  and  Empire. 

Her  first  book  of  verse,  Mary  Magdalene  and  Other  Poems, 
was  published  in  1914.  It  contains  fifty  poems  of  such  quality 
that  one  feels,  after  several  readings,  that  this  young  poet 
must  yet  climb  far  up  the  heights  of  poetic  achievement. 

Besides  labouring  in  a  munitions  factory  in  1916,  to  aid  the 
cause  of  the  Allies.  Miss  McCully  has  been  engaged  in  writing  a 
metrical  translation  of  the  epic  of  Beowulf,  the  most  precious 
of  Old  English  literary  relics.  This  is  important  work  for 
which  she  is  admirably  qualified. 


Laura  E.  McCully  *23 

Our  Little  Sister 

WEEP,  little  shrinking  spirits  of  the  woods, 
Hang-  down  your  fair,  green  faces,  all  ye  leaves. 
And  dews  be  heavy  on  the  year's  firstborn, — 
Yea,  weep  as  rain,  all  ye  that  breathe  of  spring, 
To-day  I  passed  her  in  the  city  streets ! 

Surely  the  kind  brown  earth  must  pity  her. 
Nursing'  its  young  so  safely  at  the  breast. 
All  the  great  winds  that  no  man  may  defile 
Compassionate  her,  and  the  bending  trees 
Happy  in  fruitfulness  and  blest  with  song! 

But  where  her  feet  are  set  of  all  God  made 
No  stone  remains ;  and  wearing  childhood's  face 
Fixed  in  an  awful  letharg>'  and  calm, 
Defiled,   defiling,   yet   accusing  not, 
Avenged  upon  her  race,  she  passes  on. 

The  Troubadour's  Lyre 

SING  low,  my  precious  lyre,  low  in  each  string. 
Thou  wast  not  framed  for  exaltation's  burst, 
Or  chant  sustained,  straining  thy  golden  chords, 
Sing  low,  sing  low,  thou  constant  friend,  my  lyre ! 

For  now  we  two  may  wander  forth  in  peace. 

Shattered  our  shackles  are  and  stricken   from  us, 

And  we  shall  rise  and  steal  out  into  the  world. 

Singing  all  day,  on  every  way,  my  lyre. 

Like  Orpheus  have  we  two  sojourned  through  hell, 

And  with  our  eyes  seen  evil,  nor  availed 

To  wrest  their  treasure  from  the  envious  shades. 

Therefore  come  forth,  leave  to  the  Gods  their  world ! 

If  we  should  find  that  orchard  lamped  with  gold 
Of  heart's  desire,  fasting  will  we  pass  on. 
Nor  rifle  one  small,  new-blow'n  wayside  flower, 
But  bless  its  beauty,  pass,  and  passing,  sing. 

Thus  shall  we  travel  light  of  foot  and  free, 
And  call  the  world  our  garden  and  the  woods 


424  Laura  E.  McCiiUy 

Our  house,  and  hear  the  great  winds  call  to  us, 
And  sometimes  feel  the  dripping  of  the  dews 
In  lonely  places.     Come,  for  we  are  free. 
O  lyre,  heart  of  my  heart,  formed  for  the  wind 
That  is  God's  breath,  and  not  for  human  hands 
Jangling  amid  the  strings,  come,  let  us  go! 

Canoe  Song  at  Twilight 

DOWN  in  the  west  the  shadows  rest. 
Little  grey  wave,  sing  low,  sing  low ! 
With  a  rhythmic  sweep  o'er  the  g'loomy  deep 
Into  the  dusk  of  the  night  we  go. 

And  the  paddles  dip  and  lift  and  slip. 
And  the  drops  fall  back  with  a  pattering  drip; 
The  wigwams  deep  of  the  spirits  of  sleep 
Are  pitched  in  the  gloom  on  the  headland  steep. 
Wake  not  their  silence  as  you  go, 
Little  grey  wave,  sing  low,  sing  low ! 

From  your  porch  on  high  where  the  clouds  go  by, 
Little  white  moon,  look  down,  look  down ! 

'Neath  night's  shut  lid  the  stars  are  hid. 
And  the  last  late  bird  to  his  nest  has  flown. 
The  slow  waves  glide  and  sink  and  slide 
And  rise  in  ripples  along  the  side ; 

The  loons  call  low  in  the  marsh  below. 

Night  weaves  about  us  her  magic  slow, — 
Ere  the  last  faint  gleam  in  our  wake  be  gone. 
Little  white  moon,  look  down,  look  down! 

A  Ballad  of  the  Lakes 

MY  love  she  went  a-sailing 
Ere  yet  the  day  was  done. 
And  a  wind  blew  up,  and  a  wind  blew  up, 
Straight  out  of  the  setting  sun. 

I  sat  on  a  rock  a-fishing 

Where  flashes  the  bronze-black  fin 

And  the  eddies  swirl  and  suck  and  curl 
When  the  river  tide  comes  in. 


Laura  E.  McCiilly  *'^'^ 


She  hailed  me  from  the  headland 
And  1  saw  the  brown  sail  swings 

Till  the  rope  ran  tight  and  it  lifted  light 
As  the  sweep  of  a  wild  duck's  wing. 

*0  where  go  ye  a-sailing, 

For  the  day  will  soon  be  done, 
And  see  the  shroud  of  shifting  cloud 

That's  following  up  the  sun  ?' 

'It's  off  I  am  to  the  eastward, 
To  the  rim  of  the  world  away, 

Ply  sail  and  oar  for  the  far-off  shore 
And  none  shall  bid  me  stay.' 

So  she  sailed  away  to  the  eastward 

To  the  far  horizon's  rim. 
Where  rosy  kissed  through  a  veil  of  mist 

The  line  of  the  shore  lay  dim. 

And  the  sun  sank  down  the  marshes, 

In  a  field  of  flame  he  rolled, 
The  heaving  track  from  the  boat  slipped  back 

Like  a  path  of  molten  gold. 

Each  little  wave  seemed  smiling. 

Lips  curled  in  a  rosy  bow. 
Like  a  babe  asleep  on  the  breast  of  the  deep 

That  rocked  it  to  and  fro. 

And  I  sat  on  my  rock  a-fishing 

While  further  down  the  west 
The  sun  sank  slow  to  his  bed  below 

In  the  marshes'  swaying  breast. 

Sudden  a  white  owl  hooted 

From  his  nest  in  the  pine  hard  by. 

And  a  whip-poor-will  sent  an  answer  shrill 
From  the  depths  of  the  flaming  sky. 

I  looked  away  to  the  westward 

And  there  I  saw  it  stand, 
A  cloud  pure  white  and  small  and  brigiit 

As  the  palm  of  an  opened  hand. 


426  Laura  E.  McCully 


One   leap   to  the  jutting   headland, — 

Like  a  blow  it  stung  my  face, 
The  cap  of  wind  with  the  threat  behind 

Of  the  squall  that  comes  apace. 

Out  on  the  lake  there  widened 

A  wreathing  ring  of  black, 
And  the  spreading  cloud  like  an  out-flung  shroud 

Promised  the  coming  wrack. 

The  waves  rose  white  and  frothing, 

With  a  hiss  Hke  a  rattlesnake 
That  glides  at  night  past  the  lantern's  light 

On  the  path  through  a  slimy  brake. 

Have  you  seen  the  inland  waters 

When  the  black  squall  rides  the  wave? 

For  it  comes  like  light  and  there  is  no  flight, 
And  you  call  on  God  to  save. 

As  I,  one  breath,  'Save,  save  her!' 

And  I  plunged  in  the  driving  roar, 
For  my  light  canoe  pierced  through  and  through 

Lay  high  on  the  rocky  shore. 

Clean  stroke,  long  breath,  poised  body. 
They  laugh  at  your  manhood's  pride, 

The  billows  that  seethe  and  drive  in  your  teeth 
When  the  breath  cramps  in  your  side. 

A  quarter-mile  to  the  headland? 

Ten  miles  of  boiling  hell ! 
Blind,  choked  and  stung,  bruised,  tossed  and  flung 

In  a  world  that  heaved  and  fell. 

But  once,  from  the  crest  of  a  comber 
'    The  gleam  of  a  distant  sail, 
As  slight  a  thing  as  a  butterfly's  wing 
Tossed  into  the  teeth  of  the  gale. 

On,  on!      Is  your  blood  turned   water? 

Shall  a  straining  muscle's  pain, 
Though  it  snap  like  tow,  speak  louder  now 

Than  the  cry  of  heart  and  brain  ? 


Laura  E.  McCully ^7 

In  tny  ears  the  roar  of  tlumder. 

In  my  eyes  a  spray  blood-red, 
But  once  I  sank,  lost  wind  and  drank, 

And  something"  snapped  in  my  head. 

Do  you  know  the  way  of  the  waters 

When  their  sudden  wrath  is  o'er? 
Rubbish  and  wrack  they  cast  safe  back, 

And  they  cast  me  on  the  shore. 

Do  you  know  the   way  of  the  waters. 

The  hungry,  restless  wave? 
They  take  for  toll  a  living  soul 

And  no  man  knows  the  grave. 

Then  search  no  more  by  the  marshes 

Where  the  moon  stands  up  so  white. 
Has  never  a  bird  through  the  silence  stirred 

All  the  long,  bright  summer  night. 

Then  seek  no  more  by  the  river 

Where  the  water  lilies  gleam, 
So  pale  and  still,  so  ghostly  chill 

Like  a  dead  face  in  a  dream, 

For  the  eyes  may  ache  with  seeking. 
They  may  search  till  they  see  no  more, 

And  the  heart  grow  old  and  the  pulse  beat  cold 
Ere  my  love  conies  back  to  shore. 

Mary  Magdalene  Soliloquizes 

0»   Love 

SING,  heart  of  spring,  along  the  winter  ways, 
Go  lightly  feet,  'twas  here  His  footsteps  fell. 
The  birds  sing  of  Him  for  he  counted  them 
And  knew  them  all,  the  little  winged  loves 
Like  happy  thoughts !    Yea.  every  leaf  that  kissed 
Him  passing  in  the  garden  hath  such  life 
As  puts  our  immortality  to  shame. 
The  winds  are  pregnant  with  His  message  now, 
The  universal,  all-uniting  winds 


*28  Laura  E.  McCully 

That  know  no  limitation,  like  the  spirit 

Of  mighty  truths,  sweeping  creation's  bounds, 

Disdaining  man-made  barriers,  change  and  time. 

Yea,  since  He  came,  sing  resurrected  soul, 

As  nature  sings,  through  winter  unto  spring^! 

For  now  the  ancient  curse  is  past  away. 

The  simple  way  and  straight  made  plain  to  man 

And  love  exalted,  love  revealed,  proclaimed. 

Not  love  that  self  has  sought  for  selfish  ends, 

Nor  love  possessing  or  possessed,  but  love 

Creating,  sacrificing,  binding  all, 

Conceiving  good  but  as  the  good  of  all, 

Laying  down  life  that  life  may  be  fulfilled 

In  the  new  life  that  springs  a  thousandfold 

More  rich   for  sacrifice.     O  perfect  bliss 

Which  man  alone  of  all  creation  failed 

To  grasp,  to  comprehend !     See  how  the  earth 

Meekly  and  sweetly,  with  a  sure  content. 

Lays  down  the  old  year's  leaves,  yields  to  the  wind 

Her  precious,  garnered  seeds,  nor  makes  complaint, 

But  in  her  heart,  all  lowly,  sings  of  spring; 

See  her  emerge  from  tempest,  recreate, 

Instinct  with  life,  noble  and  large  and  calm, 

At  peace  with  the  infinite  purposes  of  God ! 

Sing,  heart  of  spring,  along  the  wintry  way 

His  blessed  feet  made  glad.     Weep  not  for  Him, 

Nor  for  the  world,  nor  for  thy  human  pain. 

Cound'st  thou  have  died  as  He  did,  who  could  rend 

That  place  from  thee?    Most  perfect  was  His  part, 

But  thou  hast  thine,  to  succour,  heal  and  teach, 

Even  as  He,  perchance  to  die  as  He 

For  man.     Sing,  happy  heart,  along  life's  way 

For  joy  and  love  are  met  in  thee  and  life 

Wells  new  within  thee,  sing  for  spring  is  here, 

Sing,  for  thine  eyes  have  seen  the  Risen  Lord! 


Lloyd  Roberts 


Mr.  Roberts  as  a  [^oct  is  fiiiiihiiiiciitnUy  a  word-painter,  a 
nature  colonrist,  rather  than  a  lilter  or  verbal  musician.  By 
this  it  is  not  meant  that  his  verse  does  >iot  appeal  by  its  rhyth- 
mic szvi)ig  and  voivel  music,  consonance,  assonance  and  alliter- 
ation. As  a  verbal  musician  his  rJiythms  are  li)nited,  quite 
conventional,  though  not  artificial:  he  onploys  rhytlnns  suited 
to  his  subjects,  and  he  is  adept  in  the  use  of  pure  terniinal 
rhymes,  assonance,  and  alliteration,  gifted  in  this  respect,  sonie- 
zvhat  like  Sicinburne.  But  essoitially  Mr.  Roberts  shoz^'s  dis- 
tinction as  a  colonrist.  using  zvor(U  z^ifh  the  sa)ne  beauty  and 
pozver  that  a  master-painter  in  oils  uses  pigments.     He  is  a 

master  of  vivid  colourful  diction  and  phrase Mr. 

[Jo\d  Roberts  is  a  goiuine  poet  because  he  sings  z<.'ith  the 
poet's  chief  inspiratio)i.  namely:  ecstasy  of  delight  in  the  magic 
and  mystery  of  earth,  and  in  the  lust  of  life.  He  is  a  poet  of 
e.vceeding  great  promise. — J.  1).  Logan,  Ph.D..  in  tlie  Mon- 
treal  'TTcrald.' 


[429] 


430  Lloyd  Koberts 


BECAUSE  of  the  warm  place  held  in  the  hearts  of  Cana- 
dian readers,  by  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts,  a  first  volume 
of  poems  from  the  pen  of  his  eldest  living  son,  Mr.  Lloyd 
Roberts,  was  a  matter  of  national  interest. 

This  volume,  Bnglaiid  Over  Seas,  published  in  the  spring  of 
1914,  at  once  attracted  wide  attention.  It  was  soon  discover- 
ed that  the  son  is  as  true  a  poet  as  the  father,  possessing  the 
same  unerring  vision  and  sureness  of  touch  in  nature  descrip- 
tion, and  the  same  fine  mastery  of  words  and  of  rhythmic 
effects. 

In  an  excellent  review  in  the  Halifax  Herald,  appears  this 
passage : 

It  is  the  simplicity  of  statement,  the  lyric  charm  and  the  spon- 
taneous joy  of  its  utterance  which  make  Mr.  Roberts'  work  such 
a  pleasure  and  a  profit  to  read.  This  simplicity  is  obviously  Mr. 
Roberts'  ideal,  and  with  such  an  ideal  held  steadily  before  him,  there 
is   no   distance   he   may   not  travel   and  no   height  he  may   not   climb 

to  deliver  his  message  to  the  world Lloyd  Roberts  comes 

upon  the  scene  as  a  writer  of  true  lyric  poetry,  singing  the  song  of 
his  native  land,  and  with  each  successive  poem  fulfilling  the  promise 
of   becoming  one  of  the  way-marks  of  Canadian   literature. 

Mr.  Roberts  was  bom  in  Fredericton,  N.B.,  October  31st, 
1884.  He  was  educated  in  the  schools  of  his  native  city  and 
subsequently  at  Windsor,  N.S.  When  eighteen  years  of  age, 
he  broke  away  from  the  class-room  and  began  his  career  of 
self-directed  effort.  In  1904  he  joined  the  staff  of  Outing 
Magazine,  New  York,  as  assistant  editor ;  and  later  became 
an  editorial  writer  for  'The  National  Encyclopsedia  of  .Amer- 
ican Biography.'  Since  then  he  has  done  newspaper  work 
in  British  Columbia  and  in  Ontario,  and  is  now  occupied  in 
the  Department  of  the  Interior,  at  Ottawa,  as  editor  of  immi- 
gration literature. 

Mr.  Roberts  has  been  twice  married, — in  1908,  to  Helen 
Hope  Farquhar  Balmain,  of  England,  to  whom  his  first  volume 
is  dedicated,  and  who  died  in  1912,  leaving  him  with  one  little 
daughter,  Patricia — and  in  1914,  to  IJla  White,  of  New  York 
State. 

The  readers  of  England  Over  Seas  will  learn  with  very  real 
pleasure  that  Mr.  Roberts'  second  book  of  verse  is  ready  for 
the  press. 


Lloyd  Roberts  431 


The  Fruit-Rancher 

HE  sees  the  rosy  apples  cling  like  flowers  to  the  bough: 
Me   plucks   the   purple   plums   and   spills   the  cherries   on 
the  grass; 
He  wanted  peace  and  silence, — God  gives  him  plenty  now — 
His  feet  upon  the  mountain  and  his  shadow  on  the  pass. 

He  built  himself  a  cabin  from  red  cedars  of  his  own ; 

He  blasted  out  the  stumps  and  twitched  the  boulders  from 
the  soil ; 
And  with  an  axe  and  chisel  he  fashioned  out  a  throne 

Where  he  might  dine  in  grandeur  off  the  first  fruits  of  his 
toil. 

His  orchard  is  a  treasure-house  alive  with  song  and. sun, 
Where  currants   ripe  as  rubies  gleam  and  golden  pippins 
glow; 
His  servants  are  the  wind  and  rain  whose  work  is  never  done, 
Till  winter  rends  the  scarlet  roof  and  banks  the  halls  with 
snow. 

He  shouts  across  the  valley,  and  the  ranges  answer  back; 

His  brushwood  smoke  at  evening  lifts  a  column  to  the  moon; 
And  dim  beyond  the  distance  where  the  Kootenai  snakes  black, 

He  hears  the  silence  shattered  by  the  laughter  of  the  loon. 

Miss  Pixie 

DID  you  ever  meet  Miss  Pixie  of  the  Spntces? 
Did  you  ever  glimpse  her  mocking  elfin  face? 
Did  you  ever  hear  her  calling  while  the  whip-poor-wills  zvere 
calling, 
And  slipped  your  pack  and  taken  up  the  chase? 

Her  feet  are  clad  in  moccasins  and  beads. 

Her  dress?  Oh,  next  to  nothing!    Though  undressed, 
Her  slender  arms  are  circled  round  with  vine 

And  dusky  locks  cling  close  about  her  breast. 

Red  berries  droop  below  each  pointed  ear; 

Her  nut-brown  legs  are  criss-crossed  white  with  scratches; 
Her  merry  laughter  sifts  among  the  pines ; 

Her  eager  face  gleams  pale  from  milk-weed  patches. 
22 


432  Lloyd  Koberts 


And  though  I  never  yet  have  reached  her  hand — 
God  knows  I've  tried  with  all  my  heart's  desire; — 

One  morning  just  at  dawn  she  caught  me  sleeping 
And  with  her  soft  lips  touched  my  soul  with  fire. 

And  once  when  camping  near  a  foaming  rip, 

Lying  wide-eyed  beneath  the  milky  stars, 
Sudden  I  heard  her  voice  ring  sweet  and  clear, 

Calling  my  soul  beyond  the  river  bars. 

Dear,  dancing  Pixie  of  the  wind  and  weather, 

Aglow  with  love  and  merriment  and  sun, 
I  chase  thee  down  my  dreams,  but  catch  thee  never — 

God  grant  I  catch  thee  ere  the  trail  is  done! 

Did  you  ever  meet  Miss  Pixie  of  the  Thickets, 

Where  the  scarlet  leaves  leap  tinkling  from  your  feet? 

Have  you  ever  heard  her  calling  while  a  million  feet  were 
falling, 
And  a  million  lights  were  crowding  all  the  street? 

Englancl*s  Fields 

ENGLAND'S  cliflfs  are  white  like  milk, 
But  England's  fields  are  green; 
The  grey  fogs  creep  across  the  moors. 

But  warm  suns  stand  between. 
And  not   so   far   from   London  town,  beyond  the   brimming 

street, 
A  thousand  little  summer  winds  are  singing  in  the  wheat. 

Red-lipped  poppies  stand  and  burn. 

The  hedges  are  aglow; 
The  daisies  climb  the  windy  hills 
Till  all  grow  white  like  snow. 
And  when  the  slim,  pale  moon  slides  down,  and  dreamy  night 

is  near. 
There's  a  whisper  in  the  beeches  for  lonely  hearts  to  hear. 

Poppies  burn  in  Italy, 

And  suns  grow  round  and  high; 
The  black  pines  of  Posilipo 

Are  gaunt  upon  the  sky — 


Llovd  Roberts  *33 


And  yet  I  know  an  English  elm  beside  an  English  lane 
That  calls  me  through  the  twilight  and  the  miles  of  misty  rain. 

Tell  me  why  the  meadow-lands 

Become  so  warm  in  June ; 
Why  the  tangled  roses  breathe 
So  softly  to  the  moon ; 
And  when  the  sunset  bars  come  down  to  pass  the  feet  of  day, 
Why  the  singing  thrushes  slide  between  the  sprigs  of  May? 

Weary,  we  have  wandered  back — 

And  we  have  travelled  far — 
Above  the  storms  and  over  seas 
Gleamed  ever  one  bright  star — 
O  England !  when  our  feet  grow  cold  and  will  no  longer  roam, 
We  see  beyond  your  milk-white  cliflfs  the  round,  green  fields 
of  home. 

Husbands  Over  Seas 

EACH  morning  they  sit  down  to  their  little  bites  of  bread, 
To  six  warm  bowls  of  porridge  and  a  broken  mug  or  two. 
And  each  simple  soul  is  happy  and  each  hungry  mouth  is  fed — 
Then  why  should  she  be  smiling  as  the  weary-hearted  do? 

All  day  the  house  has  echoed  to  their  tiny,  treble  laughter 
(Six  little  rose-faced  cherubs  who  trip  shouting  through  the 
day). 
Till   the  candle   lights   the  cradle   and   runs   dark   along  the 
rafter — 
Then   why  should  she  be   watching  while  the   long  night 
wastes  away? 

She  tells  them  how  their  daddy  has  sailed  out  across  the  seas, 

And  they'll  be  going  after  when  the  May  begins  to  bloom. 

Oh,  they  clap  their  hands  together  as  they  cluster  round  her 

knees — 

Then  why  should  she  be  weeping  as  they  tumble  from  the 

room? 

The  May  has  bloomed  and  withered  and  the  haws  are  cling- 
ing red. 


434  Lloyd  Koberts 


The  winter  winds  are  talking-  in  the  dead  ranks  of  the  trees ; 
And  still  she  tells  of  daddy  as  she  tucks  each  tot  in  bed — 
God  pity  all  dear  women  who  have  husbands  over  seas! 

The  Winter  Harvest 

BETWEEN  the  blackened  curbs  lie  stacked  the  harvest  of 
the  skies, 
Long-  lines  of  frozen,  grimy  cocks  befouled  by  city  feet; 
On  either  side  the  racing  throngs,  the  crowding  cliffs,  the  cries, 
And  ceaseless  winds  that  eddy  down  to  whip  the  iron  street. 

The  wagons  whine  beneath  their  loads,  the  raw-boned  horses 

strain ; 

A  hundred  sullen  shovels  claw  and  heave  the  sodden  mass — 

There  lifts  no  dust  of  scented  moats,  no  cheery  call  of  swain, 

Nor  birds  that  pipe  from  border  brush  across  the  yellow 

grass. 

No  cow-bells  honk  from  upland  fields,  no  sunset  thrushes  call 
To  swarthy,  bare-limbed  harvesters  beyond  the  stubble 
roads ; 

But  flanges  grind  on  frosted  steel,  the  weary  snow-picks  fall, 
And  twisted,  toiling  backs  are  bent  to  pile  the  bitter  loads. 

No  shouting  from  the  intervales,  no  singing  from  the  hill. 
No  scent  of  trodden  tansy  weeds  among  the  golden  grain — 

Only  the  silent,  cringing  forms  beneath  the  aching  chill. 
Only  the  hungry  eyes  of  want  in  haggard  cheeks  of  pain. 

Come  Quietly,  Britain ! 

COME  quietly,  Britain,  all  together,  come! 
It  is  time  I 
We  have  waited,  weighed,  and  wondered 
Who  had  blundered ; 
Stared  askance  at  one  another 
As   our  brother   slew  our  brother. 
And  went  about  our  business. 
Saying:  'It  will  all  be  right — some  day. 
Let  the  soldiers  do  the  killing — 


Lloyd  Roberts  ^35 


If  they're  willing- — 
Let  the  sailors  do  the  manning-, 
Let  the  Cabinets  do  the  planning, 
Let  the  bankers  do  the  paying, 
And  the  clergy  do  the  praying. 
The  Empire  is  a  fixture — 
Walled  and  welded  by  five  oceans, 
And  a  little  blood  won't  move  it, 
Nor  a  flood-tide  of  emotions.' 

Well,  now  we  know  the  truth 

And  the  facts  of  all  this  fighting; 

How  'tis  not  for  England's  glory 

But   for  all  a   wide   world's   righting; 

Not  for  George  nor  party  power. 

Not  for  conquest  nor  for  dower, 

Not  for  fear  of  our  last  hour, 

But  the  lone  star  of  liberty  and  light. 

What  the  Puritans  left  England  for, 

What  the  Irish  their  green  isle; 

What  Adolphus  pledged  his  life  to. 

And  Orange  took  from  Spain — 

The  Spain  that  Grenville  throttled. 

And  Frankie  broke  in  twain — 

What  Washington  starved  and  strove  for 

In  the  long  winter  night; 

Lincoln  wept  for,  died  for — 

Do  we  doubt  if  he  were  right? 

Ah !  It  is  time,  if  the  soul  of  these  is  ours- 

Time  to  put  an  end  to  reason 

And  take  the  field  for  right. 

They  will  lead  us,  never  fear  it, 

They  will  lead  us  through  the  night. 

They  will  steel  the  soul  and  sinew 

Of  the  legions  of  the  land ; 

They  will  pilot  up  the  Dreadnoughts 

With  the  tillers  in  their  hand — 

Howard  and  Frobisher  and  Drake — 

And  who  would  fear  to  follow 


436  Lloyd  Roberts 


When  Nelson  sets  the  course? 
And  who  would  turn  his  eyes  away 
From  Wellington's  white  horse? 

Not  one,  I  warrant,  now — 

Not  one  at  home  to-day; 

In  Eng-land?     In   Scotland? 

In  the  Green  Isle  'cross  the  way? 

No,  nor  far  away  to  westward 

Beyond  the  leagues  of  foam — 

They  are  coming,  they  are  coming, 

Their  feet  are  turning  home. 

In  Canada  they're  singing. 

And  love  lies  like  a  flame 

About  their  hearts  this  morning 

That  sea-winds  cannot  tame. 

Africa?    Australia? 

Aye,  a  million  throats  proclaim 

That  their  Motherland  is  Mother  still 

In  something  more  than  name! 

It  is  time!     Come,  all  together,  come! 

Not  to  the  fife's  call,  not  to  the  drum ; 

Right  needs  you;  Truth  claims  you — 

That's  a  call  indeed 

One  must  heed! 

Not  for  the  weeping 

(God  knows  there  is  weeping!); 

Not  for  the  horrors 

That  are  blotting  out  the  page ; 

Not  for  our  comrades 

(How  many  now  are  sleeping!) 

Nor  for  the  pity  nor  the  rage, 

But  for  the  sake  of  simple  goodness 

And  His  laws. 

We  shall  sacrifice  our  all 

For  The  Cause! 


Beatrice  Redpath 

When  a  poet  belongs  to  no  clique  or  coterie,  nor  has  estab- 
lished a  reputation,  opinions  come  uneasily.  Beatrice  Redpath 
in  'Drawn  Shutters'  can  be  commonplace  in  the  noble  con- 
templation of  essential  life:  a  virtue  in  poetry.  She  comes  doivn 
at  times  to  the  minor  level  of  'The  Dancer.'  But  'To  One  Lyin^ 
Dead'  is  a  poem  of  true  loveliness,  elegiac  without  dullness, 
eloquent  without  gush.  .  .  Beatrice  Redpath  feels  the  pas- 
sions of  rebellion  and  indig)iation.  But  to  her  they  imply  more 
than  mere  dissatisfaction  and  chafing.  Indeed,  one  might  make 
the  quality  of  those  passions  the  supreme  test  of  character,  cer- 
tai)dv  of  poetic  pozver.  .  .  There  is  evidence  in  the  voltime 
of  life  lived  at  first  hand,  of  the  discipline  of  actuality  that 
forces  people  either  to  a  calm,  strong  nor)nality,  or  to  hectic 
agony,  and  disquiet)iess  of  spirit.  .Ind  it  is  because  the  poet 
soul  rises  to  the  reality  of  e.vperience  that  her  poems  will  not 
depress.  Of  her  brief  songs  it  may  be  said  that  they  come 
like  su)ishine  amid  clouds,  themselves  noble  and  i)npressive. 
— T.  P.'s  Wkkki.v. 

[-J371 


^38  Beatrice  Ke(li)atli 


B 


HATRICE  REDPATH  is  the  youngest  of  a  family  of 
iliree,  the  daughters  and  the  son  of  the  late  Alexander 
Peterson.  C.E.,  and  his  wife  whose  maiden  surname  was 
Langlois.  Both  parents  were  native  Canadians ;  and  their 
daug'hter,  Beatrice,  was  born  in  Montreal. 

Alexander  Peterson,  C.E.,  was  very  distinguished  in  his 
profession.  He  was  the  engineer  of  the  C.P.R.  bridg'e,  built  in 
1886,  across  the  St.  Lawrence,  at  Lachine ;  and  was  Chief 
Engineer  of  the  Canadian  Pacific  Railway,  when  the  Ste.  Anne 
and  \'audreuil  bridges  were  constructed,  and  the  great  bridge 
at  Sault  Ste.  Marie.  The  New  York  Times  declared  that  he 
was  'one  of  the  best  railway  engineers  in  the  world.' 

Beatrice  Peterson  was  educated  in  private  schools  in  her 
native  city,  until  she  was  seventeen  years  old,  when  she  moved 
to  Goderich,  Ontario,  and  lived  there  for  five  years.  In  April, 
1910,  she  married  Mr.  William  Redpath,  of  Montreal.  They 
have  one  little  boy. 

Drawn  Shutters,  her  first  book,  was  published  in  1914,  and 
capable  critics  were  quick  to  discern  the  clear  vision  and  fine 
artistry  of  the  poet. 

Earth  Love 

GOD.  in  Thy  Heaven  hast  Thou  ever  known 
Toil,  when  the  heart  and  hand  were  fused  in  one. 
The  sweet  bruised  scent  of  grasses  newly  mown. 
The  sharp  delig'ht  to  see  each  dawn  the  sun 
Rising  above  the  margent  of  the  seas? 
And  hast  Thou  ever  felt  within  Thy  breast 
That  strange  delight  in  dim  uncertainties 
With  every  day's  apparellings  unguessed  ? 
Ah,  hast  Thou  lain  with  wide  entranced  eyes 
Wrapped  in  the  purple  veilings  of  the  night 
Beneath  the  fretted  splendour  of  the  skies 
And  seen  them  tressed  with  coronal  of  light, 
Yearning  to  push  their  silvern  fringe  apart 
And  so  adventure  to  Eternity? 
God.  T  have  strangely  felt  it  in  my  heart 
Walking  u]y)n  the  earth  to  pity  Thee. 


Beatrice  Iledpath  43^ 

To  One  Lying  Dead 

STRANGE  that  thou  Hest  so.  void  of  all  will 
For  loving ;  so  content  with  thy  long  sleep 
That  neither  word  nor  sound  may  stir  the  still 
Calm  quiet  of  the  dream  that  thou  dost  keep. 

Pale  now  the  cherished  contour  of  thy  face, 
Thy  lids  lie  heavy  'gainst  the  ache  of  light, 
And  hold  in  their  wan  stillness  ne'er  a  trace 
Of  waking  from  the  shadow  of  thy  night. 

Languid  thy  tender  feet  unsandalled  rest. 
Wearied  of  passage  o'er  the  furrowed  earth ; 
They  say  thou  art  gone  forth  upon  thy  quest 
Seeking  a  greater  fullness  of  rebirth. 

Yet  all  that  I  have  ever  known  of  thee 
Lies  here.    What  has  gone  out  from  thee  this  hour 
That  leaveth  thee,  unstirred  by  word  from  me, 
Low  lying,  like  a  fallen  scentless  flower? 

Hadst  thou  a  soul  which  through  the  drifting  years 
My  earth-bound  vision  was  too  dull  to  see? 
And  didst  thou  know  the  weight  of  unshed  tears  ? 
Hadst  thou  a  spirit  straining  to  be  free? 

A  heart  that  knew  regret  and  all  desire, 
And  envy  and  that  malice  men  call  hate. 
And  saw  with  fear  the  slow  consuming  fire 
Of  life,  and  learned  to  be  compassionate? 
Then  all  of  this  was  what  I  knew  not  of, 
Thou  wert  but  loveliness  made  manifest, 
And  wore  the  garment  fashioned  of  my  love 
So  fittingly  that  I  ignored  the  rest. 

Shall  all  of  thee  that  I  have  ever  known 
Become  as  dust  the  sun  shines  not  upon? 
I  did  not  know  thy  soul  so  strangely  flown, 
So  may  not  find  thee  where  thou  now  art  gone. 
Then  let  me  kneel  thus  worshipping  and  see — 
Thee  whom  I  love,  still  lying  as  thou  art. 
That  I  may  ever  keep  long  dreams  of  thee 
And  hold  thine  image  close  within  my  heart. 


440  Beatrice  Redpath 

So  shall  I  look  upon  thy  face  so  fair, 
And  thy  sealed  lids  which  sleep  doth  seem  to  please, 
Thy  mouth's  pale  blossom  and  thy  fallen  hair, 
Where  heavy  shadows  lie  at  pleasant  ease. 

Rebellion 

THE  earth  lay  wrapped  in  pale  low  hanging  mist, 
As  some  white  tomb  all  ready  for  its  dead 
I  thought,  and  shudderingly  forward  pressed 
Into  that  shadowed  house  where  night  still  hung 
Darkly,  as  though  it  yet  were  loath  to  leave 
While  he  lay  there  so  still  within  the  room. 

There  was  a  garden  once  where  the  rose  trees 
Were  heavy  with  white  globes  of  scented  bloom, 
There  the  bright-shafted  arrows  of  the  moon 
Fell  down  the  amethystine  ways  of  night. 
And  silence  hung  so  heavy  on  the  air 
We  scarcely  dared  to  fret  the  nig'ht  with  speech. 

Ah,  how  the  scent  of  that  rose  garden  now 

Drifts  back,  and  for  a  moment  lulls  my  pain, 

But  then  more  poignant  seems  my  heart's  sharp  ache, 

For  he  lies  dead,  silent  and  all  alone. 

How  strange  it  is  to  be  the  first  time  here, 
And  pass  by  every  room  where  he  has  been 
Which  now  are  empty  as  a  disused  frame. 
Along  these  halls  his  feet  have  often  trod 
Unto  the  sound  of  Her  voice  calling  him, 
So  careful  of  Her  pleasure  as  his  wont.     .     . 
Ah,  how  the  shadows  of  these  empty  halls 
Seem  pressing  on  my  throat  to  stifle  me. 
Until  I  feel  I  may  not  reach  that  room.     .     . 
I  thought  my  heart  acquainted  well  with  grief, 
But  oh,  I  had  not  known  there  was  such  woe 
In  all  the  world  as  this,  O  God  as  this, 
To  stand  and  look  on  my  beloved  dead. 
O  Death,  I  did  not  know  thou  wert  so  still 


Beatrice  Redpath  441 


And  so  remote  from  all  this  troubled  world ; 
Thou  takest  from  me  what  was  never  mine, 
And  yet  all  mine  the  loss,  all  mine  to  bear 
The  hungry  emptiness  of  aching  days. 

For  oh,  Beloved,  though  so  far  from  thee 

Yet  thy  love  warmed  me  as  the  distant  sun 

Lightens  a  planet  in  a  further  space, 

And  so  I  was  not  wholly  comfortless. 

Now  is  the  light  gone  out  across  the  world, 

Yet  earth  reels  always  purposelessly  round. 

Ah,  I  would  scream  aloud  unto  the  stars 

That  thou  art  dead,  what  need  have  they  to  shine, 

What  need  have  moons  to  drift  across  the  skies, 

Or  suns  to  flare  above  a  barren  earth  ? 

Beloved,  now  thou  art  beyond  the  world 

And  art  no  longer  bound  to  cherish  Her, 

But  now  shalt  love  me  as  thy  spirit  wouldst. 

Ah,  shall  repression  be  our  single  creed? 

All  Thou  hast  made,  God,  Thou  hast  fashioned  free, 

But  man  would  place  a  bridle  on  it  all, 

Chain  the  glad  golden  lightnings  to  his  need, 

Stem  the  bright  rivers  eager  from  the  hills, 

And  burden  earth  with  palaces  of  steel; 

So  would  he  place  his  rule  above  our  hearts 

And  stifle  love  with  a  remorseless  law. 

But  now.  Beloved,  dust  thou  not  have  grief 

And  know  regret  because  of  wasted  years 

That  knew  no  profiting  but  only  loss  ? 

Surely  thou  seest  now  how  vain  are  laws. 

How  greatly  God  in  Heaven  esteemeth  love. 

There  was  a  garden  once  where  the  rose-trees 

Were  heavy  with  white  globes  of  scented  bloom.     .     . 

Ah,  dear,  canst  thou  not  hold  thine  arms  again 

More  wide  for  me,  I  am  so  tired  with  tears, 

And  resting  even  now  within  thine  arms 

I  might  forget  a  little  while  to  weep. 


442  Beatrice  Redpatli 


The  Daughter  of  Jairus 

I  HAVE  fashioned  soft  raiment  for  her  to  wear 
And  have  laid  her  embroidered  sandals  in  her  room, 
I  have  said  I  would  braid  and  bind  her  heavy  hair, 
But  she  has  gone  out  to  the  orchard  to  gather  bloom. 

Last  night  she  lay  in  the  dusk  with  her  eyes  adream, 

And  I  questioned  of  what  were  her  dreams  as  I  touched  her 

hand, 
But  she  looked  at  me  with  a  smile  in  her  eyes'  dark  gleam, 
What  word  might  she  use  to  make  me  understand? 

So  she  spoke  instead  of  the  earth  all  bathed  in  light, 
Of  the  moon  as  a  lily  when  the  leaves  unfold. 
Of  the  trees  like  silver  plumes  to  deck  the  night, 
Of  the  starry  skies  as  a  blazoned  script  unrolled. 

She  has  no  praise  for  all  she  had  cherished  before, 
And  has  given  away  her  beads  of  yellow  gold, 
Strange  she  seems,  yet  more  kind  than  heretofore. 
And  I  marvel  much  at  the  dreams  she  must  withhold. 

She  has  spoken  no  word  about  her  curious  sleep, 
And  the  light  in  her  eyes  we  have  vainly  essayed  to  read, 
The  secret  of  her  dream  she  must  hidden  keep, 
For  her  lips  are  framed  but  to  an  earthly  need. 

She  has  left  her  sandals  lying  upon  the  floor 
And  all  untasted  her  goblet  of  amber  wine, 
She  has  gone  out  to  the  sun  beyond  the  door 
To  sit  in  the  cool  green  gloom  of  the  hanging  vine. 

My  Thoughts 

MY  thoughts  are  as  a  flock  of  sheep 
Upon  a  windy  wold. 
At  eventide  they  homeward  creep 
To  shelter  from  the  cold ; 
And  when  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep 
They  rest  within  the  fold. 


Alfred  Gordon 

Mr.  Alfred  Gordon,  zvlw  for  so)nc  years  has  been  residing 
in  Montreal,  is  a  young  English  poet  zchose  zvork  reveals 
extraordinary  genius  and  distinction.  No  praise  can  be  too 
high  for  some  of  the  poems  in  this  most  promising  zvlunie  of 

initial  verse The   changes   that  have   come   over 

linglish  poetry,  largely  on  account  of  the  zi'ar,  are  seen  faith- 
fully reflected  in  this  book,  and  these  changes  make  for  greater 
)naiiliness,  greater  nobility  and  greater  aitsterity  of  thought. 
.  .  .  It  is  in  the  poems  that  make  up  the  first  section  of 
this  ronarkable  book  that  the  young  poet's  genius  shines  out 
in  all  its  mature  and  austere  nobility.  The  Tision.'  'Haster 
Ode'  and  the  'Ode  for  Dominion  Day,'  zvith  the  poems  'Eng- 
land to  Trance,'  'The  Little  Church.'  '.It  Evening  Prayer' 
and  'On  a  Dead  Modern  Poet,'  contai)i  so}ne  of  the  finest 
and  most  e.valted  zvriting  that  Jias  been  done  in  the  field  of 
niodern  English  poetry. — Ri:v.  Jamks  P..  OdLLARi).  in  'TIk- 
Globe.*  Toronto. 


[m] 


^^^  Alfred  Gordon 


TO  meet  unexi^ccteclly  a  new  poet  of  originality  and  ])o\vei". 
and  to  feel  for  a  few  minutes  the  charm  of  his  frank, 
sincere  and  warm-blooded  personality,  was  my  ])rivilege 
in  a  Yonge  Street  bookstore,  one  fortunate  day  in  January, 
1916.  The  poet  was  Mr.  Alfred  Gordon  of  Montreal,  and 
my  attention  had  just  been  drawn  by  Mr.  Albert  Britnell  to 
Father  Dollard's  appreciative  critique,  when  in  walked  Mr. 
Gordon  with  a  volume  of  his  Poems  under  his  arm. 

Mr.  Gordon  was  born  in  London,  England,  in  1888.  He 
was  educated  in  a  private  school,  and  at  Finsbury  Technical 
College,  where  he  studied  for  three  years  and  graduated  with 
a  certificate  in  Mechanical  Engineering.  Shortly  after  gradua- 
tion he  was  employed  by  the  Underfeed  Stoker  Company, 
and  in  connection  with  this  company,  first  saw  Canada  in  1908, 
when  he  came  out  on  the  Allan  Line  steamer,  Corinthian, 
assisting  in  boiler  tests  to  determine  the  relative  efficiency  of 
mechanical  stoking  as  against  hand-firing. 

This  was  the  voyage  on  which  the  Corinthian  came  into 
collision  with  the  Malin  Head,  and  Mr.  Gordon  was  stranded 
with  the  rest  for  a  fortnight  at  Levis.  Through  a  misunder- 
standing the  steamer  continued  homeward  without  him,  and  he 
was  left  alone  and  penniless. 

Eventually  he  got  back  to  England,  but  not  finding  congen- 
ial employment  of  a  permanent  nature,  he  decided,  in  June, 
1910,  to  cross  the  ocean  again,  this  time  to  settle  in  Canada.  He 
came  first  to  Toronto  where  he  says, 

I  was  engaged  in  almost  unbelievably  humble  work,  before  T 
went  to  Lachine  and  entered  the  employ  of  The  Dominion  Bridge 
Company   as   a   structural    draughtsman. 

Mr.  Gordon  stuck  to  draughting,  'eventually  making  good,' 
and  was  with  The  St.  Lawrence  Bridge  Company  when  the 
Great  War  broke  out,  unsettling  industrial  conditions  and 
causing  loss  of  employment  to  himself  and  others. 

The  drudgery — to  him — of  a  clerkship  in  an  insurance  office 
provided  a  livelihood  for  a  time,  when  he  resigned  to  become 
Managing  Editor  of  The  Canadian  Spectator  and  Bookman, 
a  new  journalistic  venture  with  headquarters  in  Montreal. 
In  this  city  Mr.  Gordon  resides  with  his  mother,  to  whose 
devotion  and  guidance  he  ascribes  whatever  attainment  and 
success  he  has  achieved. 


Alfred  Gordon  ^^"^ 


Dedication 

THERE  was  a  time  in  boyhood,  ere  life  ceased 
To  hold  a  miracle  in  every  hour, 
We  saw  a  City  shining  in  the  East 

That  drew  us  towards  it  with  a  magic  power. 

I  saw  its  spires  in  glittering  array. 

And  called  you  to  me,  while,  with  shaded  sight. 
We  looked  and  wondered  how  far  off  it  lay. 

And  looked  again  along  the  roadway  white. 

I  told  you  how  right  fair  it  was,  and  you, 

Half-willing  only,  placed  your  hand  in  mine — 

'T  was  but  a  mirage — aye,  that  all  men  knew, 
But  yet  none  mortal  ever  might  divine. 

And  now  the  whole  width  of  the  Atlantic  main 
Divides  the  fortune  of  our  temporal  ways; 

Perhaps  we  shall  not  meet  on  earth  agfain 
Except  in  memories  of  those  bygone  days. 

With  strengthened  vision  you,  maybe,  have  wrought 
The  consummation  of  that  early  dream, 

Whilst  I,  too  certain  in  Youth's  pride,  am  brought 
To  cry  the  passing  of  its  transient  gleam. 

Indeed,  I  think  now  that  I  did  not  see 

The  Eternal  City  of  man's  endless  quest — 

T  was  Art,  not  Life,  that  first  awakened  me. 
Though,  once  awakened,  I  might  never  rest. 

I  saw  the  beauty,  first,  of  Form  alone; 

To  Knowledge,  not  to  Wisdom,  I  aspired : 
But  hardly  even  God  to  Youth  makes  known 

The  things  'more  excellent'  of  Him  required. 

Who  were  the  captains  of  my  early  song? 

Swinburne  and  Dowson,  Symons,  Oscar  Wilde: 
Sensuous  or  violent,  but  seldom  strong; 

By  them  unconsciously  I  was  beguiled. 

Yet  it  was  natural  I  should  mistake 

Their  loves  and  lutes  and  towers  of  ivory 

For  that  Adventure  which  the  soul  must  make 
Or  else   for  ever  ignominious  be. 


446  Alfred  Gordon 


And,  at  the  root,  the  difference  is  not  great ; 

'T  is  but  a  strangeness  more  profound  I  seek : 
The  Boy's  romance,  to  him,  is  filled  with  Fate, 

Although  his  elders  of  it  lightly  speak. 

So  here,  inversely,  and  from  time  to  time, 

Is  told,  dear  friend,  my  pilgrimage  since  then — 

From  decoration  and  embroidered  rhyme 
To  some  poor  reading  of  the  minds  of  men. 

I  sometimes  ponder  if  each  soul  that  wins 
An  entrance  to  the  far-off  gates  thereof, 

May  make  atonement  for  a  spirit's  sins, 
If  once  it  dwelt  with  it,  on  earth,  in  love. 

I  wonder  if  those  hours,  though  so  long  past, 
When  we  in  word  and  deed  went  hand  in  hand. 

Will  be  a  sacrament,  and,  at  the  last, 
Together  in  that  City  we  shall  stand? 

Easter  Ode,   1915 

O   SPRING!     To  whom  the  Poets  of  all  time 
Have  made  sweet  rhyme; 
And  unto  Lovers,  above  all,  most  dear! 
How  shall  they  hymn  thee  in  this  latter  year. 
When  Death,  not  Life,  doth  ripen  to  his  prime? 
What  pulse  shall  quicken,  or  what  eye  grow  bright, 
With  Love's  delight. 

Now  sleepeth  not  the  bridegroom  with  the  bride? 
What  flowers  shall  cover,  or  what  grasses  hide 
The  miles  of  mounds  that  thrust  upon  our  sight? 

April's  light  showers,  that  made  the  sun  more  sweet, 

Seem  now  to  beat 

In  constant  boding  of  the  nations'  tears : 

Across  the  pastures,  to  each  mother's  ears. 

The  lambs  and  ewes  more  piteously  bleat. 

The  fledglings  fallen  from  the  nest  awake. 

In  hearts  that  break, 

A  new  compassion  for  their  fluttering: 

The  brown  soft  eyes  of  every  furry  thing 

Seem  doubly  tender  for  our  sorrow's  sake. 


Alfred  Gordon  447 


Pity,  through  Terror,  hath  touched  every  heart ; 

None  stand  apart. 

In  blunted  sense  or  in  the  spirit's  pride: 

The  base  and  gross  are  cleansed  and  purified ; 

Life  to  the  lettered  grows  more  great  than  Art. 

Terror,  of  Tragedy  the  nether  pole, 

Hath  purged  the  soul; 

The  priest  and  prophet  cry  not  now  alone : 

Blood  and  burnt-offerings,  that  we  thought  outgrown, 

Now  seem  the  centre  of  a  cosmic  whole. 

On   every  hill,  blood   stains  the   melting   snow, — 

The  rivers  flow 

Crimson  and  swollen  with  the  unburied  dead ; 

Through  vale  and  meadow  like  a  silver  thread 

The  streams  wind  not  as  but  a  year  ago. 

The  stolid  ploughman  as  a  rite  or  prayer 

Doth  drive  his  share. 

But  Plague  and  Famine  in  the  furrows  stalk ; 

While,  in  the  cities,  our  distracted  talk 

Betrays  the  fever  of  a  constant  care. 

Nay!  It  is  Autumn,  surely,  and  not  Spring, 

That  we  should  sing? 

Autumn  whose  breath  makes  every  leaf  forlorn! 

'Put  in  thy  sickle  on  the  standing  corn! 

The  sheaves  are  ready  for  the  garnering!' 

But,  like  a  trumpet,  even  as  we  doubt, 

A  Voice  rings  out 

Above  the  shrill  of  the  increasing  strife: 

Lo,  it  is  Easter !    And  there  dawns  such  life, 

The  very  stars,  in  exultation,  shout ! 

Before  the  glory  of  the  seraphim 

Earth's  hosts  grow  dim ; 

The  Rights  of  Nations  and  man's  empires  fade : 

No  more  from  God  each  seeks  peculiar  aid ; 

In  equal  penitence  all  turn  to  Him. 

And  though  the  quickening  of  the  countless  slain 

We  plead  in  vain, 

Life,  and  not  Death,  shall  reap  this  harvest-tide : 


448  Alfred  Gordon 


Love  in  the  Pit  shall  seal  the  Prince  of  Pride; 
The  Peace  we  mocked,  in  triumph  shall  obtain. 

Caught  up  in  vision,  lo,  I  dare  to  pen 
Patmos  again : 

'Behold!  The  kingdoms  of  this  world  shall  be 
Those  of  our  Lord,  and  of  His  Christ;  and  He 
Shall  reign  for  ever  and  for  evermore.'     Amen. 

England  to  France 

A  paraphrase  of  Mr.  Clutton-Brock's  prose  tribute,  'France' 

O   FRANCE!     On  this  dire  anniversary 
After  what  fashion  should  we  sing  to  thee? 
Or  should  we  sing? 

Or  if  one  sang  in  such  an  hour,  should  we? 
For,  in  times  past,  how  often  have  we  said 
But  vanity  and  folly  crowned  thy  head, 
And  that  in  thee  there  was  no  stable  thing? 

Yet  thou  didst  judge  us  with  like  jaundiced  eyes — 

A  people  gloomy  as  their  own  grey  skies, 

Whom  neither  love 

Nor  hate  nor  fear  nor  death  might  agonise: 

That  never  new  a  lifetime  in  one  kiss ; 

Deaf  to  all  rhapsody  of  woe  or  bliss, 

Of  Hell  beneath  them,  or  of  Heaven  above. 

For  perfidy  we  were  to  thee  a  name. 

As  thou  to  us  for  all  licentious  shame. 

Until  that  day 

All  such  loose  folly  was  consumed  with  flame: 

But  now,  howe'er  the  tide  of  battle  run, 

This  year  for  us  an  era  has  begun 

Which  shall  not  soon  or  lightly  pass  away. 

As  lovers'  quarrels  now  stand  forth  revealed 

The  petty  wrangles  that  we  kept  unhealed 

In  jealous  pride. 

But  now  for  ever  and  for  ever  sealed; 

Only  the  wasted  past  shall  we  now  rue, 

The  love  unowned  which  yet  at  heart  we  knew, 

And  which  from  now  shall  never  be  denied. 


Alfred  Gordon  449 


As  Sidney  hailed  thee  in  thy  fame  gxDne  by, 

'France,  that  sweet  enemy !'  So  now  we  cry, 

'France,  that  sweet   friend !' 

Yet,  as  of  old,  a  Queen ;  with  fame  more  high. 

Sweet  friend  for  ever,  yet  on  this  high  day 

A  Queen  in  meet  and  glorious  array 

To  whom  in  homage  all  the  nations  bend. 

O  France !  Fair  land  of  sunlight  and  the  vine, 

To  whom  illusion  and  romance  were  wine, 

By  what  new  light. 

High  o'er  the  conflict,  doth  thy  spirit  shine? 

We  have  grown  old  and  outlived  dangerous  dreams. 

While  through  thy  veins  the  fire  of  youth  yet  streams — 

How  shall  we  praise  thy  calm  restraint  aright? 

Girt  by  the  sea,  howe'er  so  greatly  pressed. 
Always  secure  we  had  one  place  of  rest, 
And  well  we  doubt 
If  we  or  any  had  endured  thy  test: 
Wherefore  we  praise  thee  as  none  else  before. 
And  in  our  hearts  a  memory  of  thee  store 
That  shall  not  fade  till  all  the  stars  die  out. 

For  thou  not  merely  hast  survived  thine  hour. 
Not,  in  thy  trial,  but  preserved  thy  power; 
But  hast  come  forth 

From  thine  affliction  with  yet  richer  dower: 
A  strange,  new  strength  thy  spirit  doth  endue, 
A  strength  unknown  of  nations  hitherto — 
Far  from  the  fury  of  this  day  of  wrath. 

As  of  fair  women  purged  by  bitter  ruth. 

Who  have  outlived  the  passions  of  their  youth 

And  find  at  length 

Peace  in  the  quiet  sanctuaries  of  truth; 

Who  smile  where  once  they  laughed,  and  yet  are  seen 

More  beautiful  than  they  have  ever  been 

In  any  triumph  of  their  former  strength. 

Who  walk  in  ways  so  gracious  and  so  still. 
Whose  mien  so  calm  a  majesty  doth  fill, 
Their  purpose  seems 


450  Alfred  Gordon 


Not  theirs,  but  part  of  the  eternal  will : 

So  thou,  O  France,  before  the  world  dost  fight 

Not  for  thyself  alone,  but  that  great  light 

In  which  the  very  flood  of  freedom  streams. 

That  light  indeed  which  always  lighted  thee, 

Howe'er  disguised  or  fitful  it  might  be — 

Aye,  even  when 

The  holiest  things  thou  mad'st  but  mockery : 

Falsehood  for  truth,  in  error,  thou  hast  deemed, 

But  never  the  idea  of  truth  blasphemed — 

So  that  great  light  thou  guardest  once  again. 

There  is  no  God,  thou  saidst,  but  never  said 

Thyself  wast  God,  and  power  unlimited 

Thy  right  divine, 

That  all  the  earth  should  tremble  at  thy  tread: 

Aye,  with  what  laughter,  sweetly  terrible, 

Voltaire  had  hurled  this  Anti-Christ  to  Hell, 

Cleaving  him  shrewdly  to  the  very  chine. 

How  thine  immortal  soul  in  him  had  flamed 

To  see  thy  temples  ruined  and  defamed; 

What  thing  more  crude 

The  lightning  laughter  of  his  scorn  had  claimed? 

For  though  destruction  overtake  thy  fanes, 

Yet  indestructible  the  faith  remains, 

Purged  of  its  dross,  and  strengthened  and  renewed. 

Barbarian  hordes  that  have  but  one  recourse. 

How  shall  thy  foes,  O  France,  assail  the  source 

Of  that  hid  life. 

Who  think  to  slay  the  spirit  by  brute  force  ? 

Upon  the  glory  of  the  past  they  war, 

But,  't  is  the  future  that  thou  fightest  for. 

And  that  great  glory  which  shall  crown  thy  strife, 

For  lo!     Whatever  wounds  are  this  day  thine, 

More  clear  through  suffering  doth  thy  spirit  shine, 

Made  once  again 

For  all  mankind  a  standard  and  a  sign : 

Aye,  as  of  old,  o'er  Terror  and  o'er  Wrath, 

The  clarion  cry  of  Liberty  goes  forth. 

And,  as  of  old,  it  doth  not  cry  in  vain ! 


Virna  Sheard 


A  study  of  'The  Miracle  and  Other  Poems'  shozcs  at  once 
that  the  author  is  not  merely  a  Canadian  poet :  her  outlook  and 
her  rani^e  knoiv  little  of  time  or  place;  she  belo)igs  to  the 
readers  of  poetry  at  large.  .  .  .  Though  Mrs.  Sheard's 
poems  are  by  no  means  of  uniform  quality,  there  are  enough  of 
the  best  to  ensure  her  a  high  place  in  Canadian  poetry.  Her  ten- 
der sympathy  zvith  small  or  helpless  things,  her  interpretation 
of  the  music  of  nature,  her  spiritual  quality  and  her  rendering 
of  reverent  Biblical  subjects  reflect  the  mind  of  an  idealist,  and 
are  the  inspired  lines  of  one  deeply  moved.  Often  there  is  a 
touch  of  sadness  or  of  the  zvhinisiciil,  but  nei'cr  a  suggestion  of 
triviality  or  flippancy.  There  is  little  of  incident  or  action: 
}nost  of  the  poems  are  pure  lyrics,  fn  niany  cases  there  ts  a 
stro)ig  appeal  to  the  (esthetic. — M.  O.  Hammunu.  in  'The 
Globe,'  Toronto. 

The  attention  of  the  reader  is  directed  very  specially  to  the 
sublime  figure  of  the  'Slumber  .Ingel,'  '.Is  do:>.'n  the  dusk  he 
steps,  from  star  to  star.' — The  Editor. 

[451] 


452  A'^inia  Slieard 


VIRX.V  SliEAKL)  was  born  in  Cobourg',  Ontario,  a 
daugiittM-  of  the  late  Eklridg'e  Stanton,  and  is  of  United 
Empire  Loyalist  descent.  Her  grandmother  was  a  first  consin 
of  the  famous  /\merican  abohtionist,  Wendell  Phillips.  She 
was  educated  in  Cobourg,  and  in  the  city  of  Toronto. 

In  1885,  she  married  Dr.  Charles  Sheard,  of  Toronto,  and 
for  years  devoted  most  of  her  time  and  energy  to  domestic  and 
social  duties. 

Mrs.  Sheard  is  the  mother  of  four  stalwart,  talented  sons, 
one  of  whom  is  serving  as  a  lieutenant  at  the  Front,  and 
another  is  in  training. 

In  1898,  poems  and  short  stories  by  'Virna  Sheard'  began 
to  appear  in  magazines  and  journals  and  since  then  she  has 
published  four  novels :  Trevclyans  Little  Daughters,  1898 ;  A 
Maid  of  Many  Moods,  1902;  By  the  Queens  Grace,  1904;  and 
The  Man  at  Lone  Lake,  1912. 

The  novels  have  merit  and  were  well  received,  but  Mrs. 
Sheard's  fame  will  likely  rest  in  greater  measure  on  her 
exquisite  lyrics.  A  collection  of  these  was  published  in  book 
form  in  the  fall  of  1913,  under  the  title,  The  Miracle  and  Other 
Poems.  Of  these,  'In  Egypt,'  the  longest  and  greatest  poem  in 
the  book,  is  too  lengthy  for  quotation  in  full.  It  is  based  on  the 
biblical  story  of  Pharaoh  and  his  obstinate  refusal  to  deliver 
the  Israelites  from  bondage,  and  its  dramatic  spirit  is  so  well 
sustained  throughout,  that  we  should  like  to  see  more  poems 
from  this  author's  pen,  with  mythical  and  historical  themes. 

The  Slumber  Angel 

WHEN  day  is  ended,  and  grey  twilig'ht  flies 
On  silent  wings  across  the  tired  land, 
The  slumber  angel  cometh  from  the  skies — 
The  slumber  angel  of  the  peaceful  eyes, 
And  with  the  scarlet  poppies  in  his  hand. 

His  robes  are  dappled  like  the  moonlit  seas. 
His  hair  in  waves  of  silver  floats  afar; 
He  weareth  lotus-bloom  and  sweet  heartsease, 
With  tassels  of  the  rustling  green  fir  trees, 

As  down  the  dusk  he  steps,  from  star  to  star. 


Virna  Sheard  ^^-^ 


Above  the  world  he  swings  his  curfew  bell. 

And  sleep  falls  soft  on  golden  heads  and  white ; 

The  daisies  curl  their  leaves  beneath  his  spell, 

The  prisoner  who  wearies  in  his  cell 

Forgets  awhile,  and  dreams  throughout  the  night. 

Even  so,  in  peace,  comes  that  great  Lord  of  rest 
Who  crowneth  men  with  amaranthine  flowers ; 
Who  telleth  them  the  truths  they  have  but  guessed, 
Who  giveth  them  the  things  they  love  the  best, 
Beyond  this  restless,  rocking  world  of  ours. 

Dreams 

KEEP  thou  thy  dreams — though  joy  should  pass  thee  by 
Hold  to  the  rainbow  beauty  of  thy  thought ; 
It  is  for  dreams  that  men  will  oft-times  die 

And  count  the  passing  pain  of  death  as  nought. 

Keep  thou  thy  dreams,  though  faith  should  faint  and  fail, 
And  time  should  loose  thy  fingers  from  the  creeds, 

The  vision  of  the  Christ  will  still  avail 

To  lead  thee  on  to  truth  and  tender  deeds. 

Keep  thou  thy  dreams  through  all  the  winter's  cold, 
When  weeds  are  withered,  and  the  garden  grey, 

Dream  thou  of  roses  with  their  hearts  of  gold. 
Beckon  to  summers  that  are  on  their  w^ay. 

Keep  thou  thy  dreams — the  tissue  of  all  wings 
Is  woven  first  of  them  ;  from  dreams  are  made 

The  precious  and  imperishable  things 

Whose  loveliness  lives  on,  and  does  not  fade. 

Keep  thou  thy  dreams,  intangible  and  dear 

As  the  blue  ether  of  the  utmost  sky — 
A  dream  may  lift  thy  spirit  past  all  fear. 

And  with  the  great  may  set  thy  feet  on  high. 


23 


454  Virna  Sheard 


In  Solitude 

HE  is  not  desolate  whose  ship  is  sailing 
Over  the  mystery  of  an  unknown  sea, 
For  some  great  love  with  faithfulness  unfailing 
Will  light  the  stars  to  bear  him  company. 

Out  in  the  silence  of  the  mountain  passes, 
The  heart  makes  peace  and  liberty  its  own — 

The  wind  that  blows  across  the  scented  grasses 
Bringing  the  balm  of  sleep — comes  not  alone. 

Beneath  the  vast  illimitable  spaces 

Where  God  has  set  His  jewels  in  array, 

A  man  may  pitch  his  tent  in  desert  places 
Yet  know  that  heaven  is  not  so  far  away. 

But  in  the  city — in  the  lighted  city — 

Where  gilded  spires  point  toward  the  sky, 

And  fluttering  rags  and  hunger  ask  for  pity. 
Grey  Loneliness  in  cloth-of-g'old,  goes  by. 

The  Daisy 

AN  angel  found  a  daisy  where  it  lay 
On  Heaven's  highroad  of  transparent  gold, 
And,  turning  to  one  near,  he  said,  T  pray, 

Tell  me  what  manner  of  strange  bloom  I  hold. 
You  came  a  long,  long  way — perchance  you  know 
In  what  far  country  such  fair  flowers  blow?' 

Then  spoke  the  other:  'Turn  thy  radiant  face 
And  gaze  with  me  down  purple  depth  of  space. 
See,  where  the  stars  lie  spilled  upon  the  night. 
Like  amber  beads  that  hold  a  yellow  light. 
Note  one  that  burns  with  faint  yet  steady  glow ; 
It  is  the  Earth — and  there  these  blossoms  grow. 
Some  little  child  from  that  dear,  distant  land 
Hath  borne  this  hither  in  his  dimpled  hand.' 
Still  gazed  he  down.     'Ah,  friend,'  he  said,  T,  too, 
Oft  crossed  the  fields  at  home  where  daisies  grew.' 


Viriia  Sheard  ^'''^ 


The  Lily  Pond 

ON  this  little  pool  where  the  sunbeams  lie, 
This  tawny  gold  ring  where  the  shadows  die, 
God  doth  enamel  the  blue  of  Mis  sky. 
Through  the  scented  dark  when  the  night  wind  sighs, 
He  mirrors  His  stars  where  the  ripples  rise. 
Till  they  glitter  like  prisoned  fireflies. 
Tis  here  that  the  beryl-green  leaves  uncurl, 
And  here  the  lilies  uplift  and  unfurl 
Their  golden-lined  goblets  of  carven  pearl. 

When  the  grey  of  the  eastern  sky  turns  pink. 
Through  the  silver  edge  at  the  pond's  low  brink 
The  little  lone  field-mouse  creeps  down  to  drink. 
And  creatures  to  whom  only  God  is  kind, 
The  loveless  small  things,  the  slow,  and  the  blind, 
Soft  steal  through  the  rushes,  and  comfort  find. 

Oh,  restless  the  river,  restless  the  sea. 

Where  the  great  ships  go,  and  the  dead  men  be ! 

The  lily-pond  giveth  but  peace  to  me. 

The  Harp 

ACROSS  the  wind-swept  spaces  of  the  sky 
The  harp  of  all  the  world  is  hung  on  high, 
And  through  its  shining  strings  the  swallows  fly. 

The  little  silver  fingers  of  the  rain 

Oft  touch  it  softly  to  a  low  refrain, 

That  all  day  long  comes  o'er  and  o'er  again. 

And  when  the  storms  of  God  above  it  roll. 

The  mighty  wind  awakes  its  sleeping  soul 

To  songs  of  wild  delight  or  bitter  dole. 

And  through  the  quiet  night,  as  faint  and  far 

As  melody  down-drifted  from  a  star. 

Trembles  strange  music  where  those  harp-strings  are. 

But  only  flying  words  of  joy  and  woe. 

Caught  from  the  restless  earth-bound  souls  below. 

Over  the  vibrant  wires  ebb  and  flow. 


456  Virna  Shear d 


And  in  the  cities  that  men  call  their  own, 
And  in  the  unnamed  places,  waste  and  lone, 
This  harp  forever  sounds  Life's  undertone. 

The  Lonely  Road 

WE  used  to  fear  the  lonely  road 
That  twisted  round  the  hill ; 
It  dipped  down  to  the  river-way, 

And  passed  the  haunted  mill, 
And  then  crept  on,  until  it  reached 
The  churchyard,  green  and  still. 

No  pipers  ever  took  that  road, 
No  gipsies,  brown  and  gay ; 

No  shepherds  with  the  gentle  flocks, 
No  loads  of  scented  hay ; 

No  market- waggons  jingled  by 
On  any  Saturday. 

The  dog%vood  there  flung  wide  its  stars. 

In  April,  silvery  sweet ; 
The  squirrels  crossed  that  path  all  day 

On  tiny  flying  feet ; 
The  wild,  brown  rabbits  knew  each  turn. 

Each  shadowy  safe  retreat. 

And  there  the  golden-belted  bee 
Sang  his  sweet  summer  song. 

The  crickets  chirped  there  to  the  moon 
With  steady  note  and  strong ; 

Till  cold  and  silence  wrapped  them  round 
When  autumn  nights  grew  long. 

But,  oh !  they  brought  the  lonely  dead 

Along  that  quiet  way. 
With  strange  procession,  dark  and  slow, 

On  sunny  days  and  grey ; 
We  used  to  watch  them,  wonder-eyed, 

Nor  cared  again  to  play. 

And  we  forgot  each  merry  jest ; 
The  birds  on  bush  and  tree 


Virna  Sheanl  ^57 


Silenced  the  sung*  within  their  throats 

And  with  us  watched  to  see, 
The  soft,  slow  passing  out  of  sight 

Of  that  dark  mystery. 

We  fear  no  more  the  lonely  road 

That  winds  around  the  hill ; 
Far  from  the  busy  world's  highway 

And  the  gods'  slow-grinding  mill ; 
It  only  seems  a  peaceful  path, 

Pleasant,  and  green,  and  still. 

From  *  In  Egypt ' 

OWHEN  the  desert  blossomed  like  a  mystic  silver  rose, 
And  the  moon  shone  on  the  palace,  deep  guarded  to  the 
gate, 
And  softly  touched  the  lowly  homes  fast  barred  against  their 
foes. 
And  lit  the  faces  hewn  of  stone,  that  seemed  to  watch  and 
wait — 

There  came  a  cry — a  rending  cry — upon  the  quivering  air. 
The  sudden  wild  lamenting  of  a  nation  in  its  pain. 

For  the  first-born  sons  of  Egypt,  the  young',  the  strong,  the 
fair, 
Had  fallen  into  dreamless  sleep — and  would  not  wake  again. 

And  within  the  palace  tower  the  little  prince  slept  well. 

His    head   upon    his    mother's    heart,   that    knew    no   more 
alarms ; 
For  at  the  midnight  hour — O  most  sweet  and  strange  to  tell — 

She  too  slept  deeply  as  the  child  close  folded  in  her  arms. 

Hard  through  the  city  rode  the  king,  unarmed,  unhelmeted. 
Toward  the  land  he  loaned  his  bondsmen,  the  country  kept 
in  peace ; 
He  swayed  upon  his  saddle,  and  he  looked  as  looked  the  dead — 
The  people  stared  and  wondered  though  their  weeping  did 
not  cease. 


458  Yirna  Sheard 


On  did  he  ride  to  Goshen,  and  he  called  'Arise !   Arise ! 

Thou  leader  of  the  Israelites,  'tis  I  who  bid  you  go! 
Take  thou  these  people  hence,  before  the   sun   hath  lit  the 
skies ; — 

Get  thee  beyond  the  border  of  this  land  of  death  and  woe !' 

Across  the  plains  of  Egypt  through  the  shadows  of  the  night 
Came  the  sound  as  of  an  army  moving  onward  steadily. 

And  their  leader  read  his  way  by  the  stars'  eternal  light 
While  all  the  legions  followed  on  their  journey  to  the  sea. 

The  moon  that  shineth  overhead  once  saw  these  mysteries — 
And  then  the  world  was  young,  that  hath  these  many  years 
been  old ; 
If  Egypt  drank  her  bitter  cup  down  even  to  the  lees 

Who  careth  now?     'Tis  but  an  ancient  tale  that  hath  been 
told. 

Yet  still  ive  hear   the  footsteps — as  he  goeth   to  and  fro — 
Of  Azrael,  the  Angel,  that  the  Lord  God  sent  below, 
To  Egypt — long  ago. 

From 'The  Temple' 

HERE   is  the  perfume  of  the  leaves,  the   incense   of  the 
pines — 
The  magic  scent  that  hath  been  pent 

Within  the  tangled  vines : 
No  censer  filled  with  spices  rare 
E'er  swung  such  sweetness  on  the  air. 

And  all  the  golden  gloom  of  it  holdeth  no  haunting  fear 
For  it  is  blessed,  and  giveth  rest 

To  those  who  enter  here — 
Here  in  the  evening — who  can  know 
But  God  Himself  walks  to  and  fro! 

And  music  past  all  mastering  within  the  chancel  rings ; 
None  could  desire  a  sweeter  choir 
Than  this — that  soars  and  sings, 
Till  far  the  scented  shadows  creep — 
And  quiet  darkness  bringeth  sleep. 


J.  Edgar  Middleton 

Jesse  Bdgar  Middleton  zeas  born,  Xoirniber  Srd,  187 2,  in 
the  tonniship  of  Pilkington,  ]Vcllingto)i  county,  Ontario.  His 
father,  Rev.  B.  Middleton,  is  of  English  birth,  and.  his  mother, 
Margaret  Agar,  was  born  and  brought  up  at  Xewton  Brook, 
near  Toronto.  The  future  ['oet  and  Jiuniourist  had  the  ad- 
Z'antage  of  the  Methodist  Itinerancy  in  beconiing  acijuainted 
li'ith  7na)iy  tyf>es  of  humanity.  He  leas  educated  at  the  Strath- 
roy  Collegiate  Institute,  and  ai  Putton  High  School,  for  three 
years  he  was  a  public  school  teacher,  then  he  entered  a  pub- 
lishing house  in  Clrreland,  Ohio,  as  a  proof-reader.  After 
three  years  of  this,  lie  entered  Journalism  in  Quebec  city.  Lat- 
er, he  came  to  Toronto  as  music  critic  of  the  'Mail  and  Empire.' 
but  since  1^04,  he  has  been  on  the  staff  of  'The  Nezes.'  Mr. 
Middleton  is  choirmaster  of  Centennial  .Methodist  Church,  and 
a  member  of  the  .Mendelssohn  Choir.  He  was  married  in 
1S9^,  to  Bessie  ./.  Jachson,  of  London,  Ontario,  and  has  one 
son.  Some  excellent  icar  i-erse  from  his  pen  has  appeared  in 
his  widely-read  colunui,  'On  The  Side.' — The  Editor. 

145yj 


460  J.  Edgar  Middleton 

The  Colonial 

1    NEVER  saw  the  cliffs  of  snow, 
The  Channel  billows  tipped  with  cream, 
The  swirling  tides  which  ebb  and  flow 

About  the  Island  of  my  dream. 
I   never   saw   the   English   downs 

Upon  an   April   day, 
The  quiet   old   Cathedral  towns, 
The  hedgerows   white  with  may. 
And  still  the  name  of  England 
Which  faithless  tyrants  scorn 
Can  thrill  my  soul.    It  is  to  me 
A  very  bugle-horn. 
A  thousand  leagues  from  Albion's  shore 

In  newer  lands  I  saw  the  light, 
I  never  heard  the  cannon's  roar, 

Nor  saw  a  mark  of  Britain's  might, 
Save  that  my  people  lived  in  peace 

And  blessed  the  harvest  sun, 
And   thought   that   tyranny   would   cease. 
And  battle-days  be  done. 
And  still  the  flag  of  England 
Was  rippling  in  the  breeze 
And  twice  two  hundred  ships  of  war 
Were  surging  through  the  seas. 
I  heard  Polonius  declaim 

About  the  new,  the  golden  age. 
When  Force  was  but  the  mark  of  shame. 

When  men  would  curb  their  hellish  rage. 
'Beat  out  your  swords  to  pruning  hooks,' 

He  shouted  to  the  throng, 
But   I — I    read   my   History-books 
And  wondered  at  the  song. 
For  it  was  glorious  England, 

The  guardian  of  the  free. 
Who  loosed  those  foolish  tongues — but  kept 
Her  cruisers  on  the  sea. 
And  liberty  was  ours  to  love, 

To  raise  a  brood  of  lusty  sons, 


J.  Edgar  MlchlhMoii  ^61 

To  worship  Him  who  reigns  above, 

And  ah ! — we  never  saw  the  guns, 
The  search-Hghts  sweeping  o'er  the  sky, 

The  seamen  stern  and  bold, 
Our  only  thought,  to  live  and  die, 

And  comb  the  earth  for  gold. 

But  it  was  glorious  England 

Who  scanned  the  threatening  morn. 

And  ah,  the  very  name  of  her 
Is  like  a  bugle-horn ! 

Off  Heligoland 

GHOSTLY  ships  in  a  ghostly  sea, — 
Here's  to  Drake  in  the  Spanish  main ! — 
Hark  to  the  turbines,  running  free, 

Oil-cups  full  and  the  orders  plain. 
Plunging   into   the  misty   night. 

Surging  into  the  rolling  brine, 
Never  a  word,  and  never  a  light, — 
This  for  England,  that  love  of  mine ! 

Look!  a  gleam  on  the  starboard  bow, — 

Here's  to  the  Fighting  Temcraire! — 
Quartermaster,  be  ready  now. 

Two  points  over,  and  keep  her  there. 
Ghostly  ships — let  the  foemen  grieve. 

Yon's  the  Admiral,  tight  and  trim. 
And  one  more — with  an  empty  sleeve — 

Standing  a  little  aft  of  him! 

Slender,  young,  in  a  coat  of  blue. — 

Here's  to  the  Agamemnon's  pride! — 
Out  of  the  mists  that  long  he  knew. 

Out  of  the  Victory,  where  he  died, 
Here,   to  the  battle-front   he  came. 

See,  he  smiles  in  his  gallant  way ! 
Ghostly  ships  in  a  ghostly  game. 

Roaring  guns  on  a  ghostly  day ! 

There  in  his  white  silk  smalls  he  stand.>;, — 
Here's  to  Nelson,  with  three  times  three ! — 


462  J.  Edgar  Middleton 

Coming  out  of  the  misty  lands 

Far,  far  over  the  misty  sea. 
Now  the  Foe  is  a  crippled  wreck, 

Limping  out  of  the  deadly  fight. 
Smiling  yond,  on  the  quarterdeck 

Stands  the  Spirit,  all  silver-bright. 

Hell's  Half  Acre 

SIX  years  of  life  in  the  reek  of  things 
Where  love  is  a  fay  unknown ; 
A  wolfish  boy  on  the  crowded  street 

Who  stoops  for  the  cruel  stone ; 
No  laughter-light  in  his  infant  eyes, 

No  joy  and  no  baby  shame. 
'Tis  Hell's  Half  Acre  has  made  him  thus 

And  we  are  the  ones  to  blame. 
Oh,  look  you  well  at  the  rosy  lad 

Who  sits  on  your  knee  to-night, 
His  arms  entwining  about  your  neck, 

His  big  round  eyes  alight. 
Oh,  list  you  well  to  his  silver  laugh 

Which   echoes  on   Heaven's   street. 
Till  the  angels  smile  as  they  pause  to  hear 

The  sound  so  glad  and  sweet. 
Your  boy  is  filled  with  the  joy  of  love; 

He  knows  your  protecting  hand. 
It  keeps  him  out  of  the  Lake  of  Lies 

'Mid  the  hills  of  Hopeless  Land. 
And  yet  his  brother,  a  child  of  woe, 

Is  living  in  black  despair 
In  Hell's  Half  Acre,  and  you  and  I 

Are  willing  to  leave  him  there. 
God  help  the  child  of  a  devil's  home 

With  his  broken-hearted  sigh. 
He  cringes  low  in  his  filthy  rags, 

A  curse  for  his  lullaby. 
Six  years  of  life  in  the  reek  of  things 

Where  God  is  an  empty  name. 
'Tis  Hell's  Half  Acre,  beside  our  doors, 

And  we  are  the  ones  to  blame. 


Arthur  S.  Bourinot 

The  )iamc  Bourinot  stands  for  a  good  deal  i)i  Canadian 
letters,  and  it  is  gratifying  to  observe  that  the  mantle  of  a 
gifted  father  giz-es  promise,  in  this  little  volume  of  poems,  of 

zvorthily  descending   to   a  literary  son There   is 

a  good  deal  of  promise  in  'Laurentian  Lyrics  and  Other  Poems.' 
The  meaning  throughout  the  poems  is  alu'ays  clear,  and  there 
is  no  straining  after  effect.  The  poetic  conception  is,  hou'ever, 
yet  lacking  in  that  strength  7^.'hich  comes  from  a  higher  z-ision 
and  deeper  realisation  of  life,  for  as  yet.  using  the  zvords  of 
Tennxson,  'Sorrozv  has  not  ruled  our  author's  life.  Divine 
dissatisfaction  and  suffering  are  the  altar  stairs  zchereby  genius 
develops  and  bears  goodly  fruit.' — 'The  Globe,"  Toronto. 

The  sonnet  'To  the  Memory  of  Rupert  Brooke'  is  an  admir- 
able piece  of  zvork. — 'The  Literary  Digest.' 

There  is  a  delicacy  and  fragrance  about  them:  they  breathe 
the  love  of  nature's  zvide  spaces. —  The  Evening  Telegram,' 
Toronto. 


[463] 


464  Arthur  S.  Bouriuot 


MR.  ARTHUR  STANLEY  BOURINOT,  B.A.,  was  born 
in  Ottawa,  Oct.  3rd,  1893,  of  native  Canadian  parents, 
— his  father,  the  late  Sir  John  Bourinot,  K.C.M.G.,  Clerk 
of  the  House  of  Commons  and  an  author  of  repute,  and 
his  mother,  Isabelle  Cameron,  a  daughter  of  the  late  Mr. 
John  Cameron,  of  Toronto — and  his  education  was  received  in 
the  public  school,  in  the  Ottawa  Collegiate  Institute,  and  in 
University   College,   Toronto. 

After  graduation  in  1915,  he  became  a  civil  servant  in  the 
Department  of  Indian  Affairs  at  Ottawa,  but  in  a  few  months 
was  granted  leave  of  absence  to  accept  a  commission  as  lieu- 
tenant in  the  77th  Overseas  Battalion. 

Lady  Bourinot  resides  in  Ottawa. 

In  reply  to  a  question  or  two,  Mr.  Bourinot  writes : 

I  never  went  in  much  for  sports  but  always  did  a  lot  of  walking. 
Most  of  my  summers  have  been  spent  camping  at  Kingsmere  in  the 
Laurentians,  whence  I  got  the  title  of  my  book. 

Laurentian  Lyrics  and  Other  Poetns  was  published  in 
December,  1915.  It  contains  but  twenty-four  short  lyrics — 
not  much  in  quantity — but  the  quality  is  that  of  a  true  singer, 
piping  his  first  notes  with  a  sure  instinct  and  with  the  joy  of 
creation. 

To  the  Memory  of  Rupert  Brooke 

HE  loved  to  live  his  life  with  laughing  lips, 
And  ever  with  gold  sunlight  on  his  eyes, 
To  dream  on  flowered  uplands  as  they  rise, 
O'er  which  the  moon  like  burnished  metal  slips ; 
To  hear  the  gypsy  song  in  sails  of  ships, 
And  wander  o'er  the  waves  'neath  azure  skies, 
Seeing  the  splendour  of  tired  day  which  dies 
And  into  lone  oblivion  slowly  dips. 

But  suddenly  his  country  clashed  in  arms, 

And  peace  was  crushed  and  trampled  like  pale  bloom, 

Beneath  the  careless  feet  of  man  and  beast, — 

The  world  was  turmoil,  stirred  from  west  to  east. 

And  song  and  gladness  had  no  longer  room. 

For  drum  and  bugle  called  with  loud  alarms. 


Arthur  S.  Bouriuot  *^^- 

Autumn  Silence 

HOW  still  the  quiet  fields  this  autumn  day, 
The  piled  uji  sheaves  no  more  retain  their  gold, 
And  ploughmen  drive  their  horses  o'er  the  mould, 
While  up  into  the  hills  and   far  away 
The  white  road  winds  to  where  the  sun's  last  ray 
Mantles  the  heavens  in  a  scarlet  fold 
Of  glorious  colour,  of  radiance  untold, 
And  then  the  twilight  turns  the  red  to  gray. 

How  still  the  quiet  fields  this  autumn  eve ; 

And  yet  we  know  that  here,  in  other  lands, 
Red  war  still  causes  mothers'  hearts  to  grieve. 

And  lives  are  spent  as  countless  as  the  sands. 
O  God,  we  ask  that  Thou  wilt  put  to  flight 
The  shadows  of  this  quiet  autumn  night ! 

A  Flower  in  the  City  Street 

1  FOUND  a  flower  in  the  city  street. 
Crumpled  and  crushed  it  lay, 
Trodden  down  by  the  careless  feet 
Of  all  who  passed  that  way. 

Its  colour  was  not  o'  the  fairy  green, 
Grey  was  its  gypsy  face. 
But  still  it  wore  a  wisp  o'  sheen 
The  world  could  not  efface. 

It  fell  like  a  gem  from  a  woman's  breast, 
Loosed  like  a  frightened  thing, 
And  I  recalled  the  haunting  rest 
Of  meadows  in  the  spring. 

I  found  a  flower  in  the  city  street. 
With  red  heart  crushed  to  grey. 
And  life  to  me  seemed  sweet,  so  sweet. 
Bright  as  the  break  of  day. 


4C6  Arthur  S.  Bourinot 


Returning 

I   CAME  once  more  "midst  the  Laurentian  Hills, 
Where  love  and  I  with  laughter  used  to  stray, 
And  wandered  o'er  green  uplands  where  life  stills 
And  fauns  and  fairies  dance  at  dying  day. 
The  pallid  trilliums  nodded  fast  asleep, 
With  pale,  white  faces  peering  through  the  gloom ; 
A  sweet  and  subtle  incense  seemed  to  creep 
Across  the  silence  of  the  world's  broad  room ; 

And  breath  o'  dusk  was  sweet  in  lilac  time 

And  dark,  brown  throated  birds  burst  forth  in  song, 

While  through  the  valley  rang  the  evening  chime, 

And  little  stars  flowered  the  skies  ere  long; 

Dreaming,  I  trod  the  shadowed,  dusty  way; 

Alas,  with  dawn,  my  dreams  were  dimmed  and  grey! 


L 


The  Harvest  Wind 

AST  night  the  wind  swept  swiftly  o'er  the  fields, 
Where  late  the  wheat  swayed  golden  in  the  sun, 
And  where  no  more  the  singing  reaper  wields 
His  scythe,  for  now  the  harvest  toil  is  done. 

The  wind  stole  quietly,  but  with  chilling  breath, 
And  voice  as  seeking,  seeking  without  end, 
And  low,  its  murmur  said,  T  bring  not  Death 
But  only  sleep,  the  lover  and  the  friend.' 

The  wind  swept  past  and  onward  o'er  the  hills, 
With  restless  pace,  unwearying  in  its  quest, 
And  in  my  heart  I  felt  the  fear  that  stills. 
For  swift  I  heard  its  beating  in  my  breast. 

The  whispering  of  strange  voices  filled  the  night ; 
I  dreamed  the  dead  were  drifting  on  the  wind. 
Returning  to  their  land  with  hastening  flight ; 
And  still  I  hear  the  words  the  wind's  voice  dinned. 


Ind 


ex 


PAGE 

Bartlett,  Gertrude  395 

The  Gunners    396 

Put  by  the  FUite   396 

Ballade  of   Barren   Roses.  397 
Ballade  of  Tristram's  Last 

Harping    398 

Blackburn.   Grace    383 

The  Evening  Star   384 

Epic  of  the  Yser   385 

Sing  Ho   for  the   Herring  385 

H  Winter  Come  386 

The   Cypress-Tree    387 

The  Chant  of  the  Woman.  387 

Blewett,  Jean  189 

Chore  Time    191 

For   He  Was  Scotch,  and 

So  Was  She   192 

The   Passage    193 

Quebec    194 

What    Time    the    Morning 

Stars  Arise   194 

The   Usurer    196 

Bourinot.  Arthur  S.  .  .  .  463 
To  the  Memory  of  Rupert 

Brooke    464 

Autumn    Silence    465 

A  Flower  in  the  City  Street  465 

Returning     466 

The   Har\est  Wind    466 

Cameron,  Geo.  Frederick  101 

Ah,  Me!  the  Mighty  Love  102 

Standing  on  Tiptoe   103 

The  Way  of  the  World. . .  103 

I   Am  Young   104 

What  Matters  It?  104 

To  the  West  Wind   105 

An  Answer  106 

Wisdom    107 


P.\GE 

Amoris  Finis    107 

In  After  Days  107 

Campbell,   Wilfred    ....  87 

England    89 

The  Children  of  the  Foam  91 

The  Dreamers   93 

Stella  Flammarum   95 

The  Mother   96 

The  Last  Prayer  99 

Carman,   Bliss    109 

Earth  Voices    Ill 

A  Mountain  Gateway   ....  113 

Garden   Shadows    114 

The  Tent  of  Noon  115 

Spring's   Saraband    116 

Low   Tide   on    Grand-Pre.  117 

Threnody  for  a  Poet   ....  118 

At  the  Making  of  Man  ...  119 

Coleman.  Helena 205 

More    Lovely    Grows    the 

Earth  206 

To  a  Bluebell    207 

Indian    Summer    208 

Prairie  Winds    209 

Enlargement    211 

Day  and  Night    211 

Beyond  the  Violet  Rays..  212 

As  Day  Begins  to  Wane..  212 

Crawford.  Isabella  Valancy  33 

Songs  of  the  Soldiers 35 

His  Mother     35 

His  Wife  and    Baby    ...  36 

His  Sweetheart     ^^ 

From  Malcolm's  Katie   ...  38 

From   'The  Helot'    43 

The  Mother's   Soul    44 

The   Rose    46 


1467 


468 


Index 


PAGE 

Dollard,  Rev.  James  B.  .  413 

Rupert   Brooke    415 

The  Haunted  Hazel 415 

The  Fairj'  Harpers    416 

At     Dead     o'     the     Night, 

Alanna    417 

Ballad   of  the   Banshee    ..  418 

The  Passing  of  the  Sidhe  419 

Ould  Kilkinny   420 

Drummond,  Wm.  Henry  177 
The    Wreck    of    the    'Julie 

Plante'    179 

Little    Bateese    180 

Johnnie  Courteau    182 

De  Nice  Leetle  Canadienne  184 

Madeleine   Vercheres    185 

Eaton,  Arthur  W.  H.  .  .  197 
The  Phantom  Light  of  the 

Baie   Des   Chaleurs    199 

The    Lotus   of   the    Nile..  200 

I  Watch  the  Ships   201 

L'lle   Sainte   Croix    202 

The  Bridge  203 

Gordon,  Alfred   443 

Dedication   445 

Easter  Ode,  1915  446 

England  to   France    448 

Hale,  Katherine    323 

At  Noon   325 

Grey  Knitting 325 

You  Who  Have  Gaily  Left 

Us    326 

When   You  Return    326 

Jn  The  Trenches  327 

1  Used  to  Wear  a  Gown  of 

Green ZZ] 

To  Peter  Pan  in  Winter..  328 

The  Answer  329 

Harrison,  S.  Frances   .  .  123 

Gatineau   Point    125 

The  Voyageur   125 

Danger   126 

Les   Chantiers    126 


PAGE 

Petite   Ste.    Rosalie    127 

St.  Jean  B'ptiste   12& 

Catharine  Plouflfe  129 

Benedict   Brosse    129 

In  March  130 

Holland,  Norah  M 407 

To   W.   B.   Yeats    408 

The  Unchristened  Child..  409 
The       King       of       Erin's 

Daughter    409 

My  Dog  and  I    410 

Cradle  Song  4U 

Home      Thoughts      From 

Abroad     411 

Sea    Song    412 

Hucstis,  Annie  Campbell  273 

The   Little   White   Sun    ..  274 

The  Will-o'-the-Wisp    ....  275 

Aldaran    276 

On  the   Stair    280 

Johnson,  E.  Pauline....  145 

In  the  Shadows  147 

As  Red  Men  Die   149 

The  Song  My  Paddle  Sings  150 

The  Lost  Lagoon  152 

The  Pilot  of  the  Plains...  152 

The  Songster  154 

The  Riders  of  the  Plains.  155 

Lampman,  Archibald   .  .  61 

April  in  the  Hills  63 

The   Truth    64 

Morning  on  the  Lievre   . .  65 

Heat    66 

A  January   Morning    67 

After  Rain    68 

Winter   Evening    69 

In    March    69 

The  Railway   Station    70 

War    70 

April  Night  IZ 

The  Largest  Life  IZ 

Livesay,  Florence  Randal  371 

Immortality     Zll 


Index 


4GH 


The  Young  Recruits  . . 
Song  of  the  Cossack  .  . 
Khustina — The    Kerchief 

At  Vieille  Chapelle    

The  Bride  of  the  Sea  . . 


2,72, 
2,7Z 
374 
375 
376 


Logan,  John  Daniel   . .  .  265 
The  Over- Song  of  Niagara  267 
Cartier :      Dauntless      Dis- 
coverer     268 

Champlain  :  First  Canadian  268 

Laval:    Noble   Educator...  269 

Brock  :  Valiant  Leader  . .  .  269 

Winifred  Waters 270 

Wind  o'  the  Sea   270 

Timor    Mortis    271 

MacDonald,  E.  Roberts.  221 

Voices  223 

The  Spell  of  the  Forest..  223 

The  House  Among  the  Firs  223 

The  Fire  of  the  Frost....  224 

White  Magic    225 

The  Signal-Smokes   225 

Dreamhurst  226 

Mackay,  Isabel  E 237 

The  Mother    239 

Out  of  Babylon   239 

Marguerite    de    Roberval..  240 

The  Passing  of  Cadieux . .  243 

Mackenzie,  George  A.   .  389 
In  That  New  World  Which 

Is  the  Old 391 

To  a  Humming-Bird  391 

Magellan    392 

My  Baby  Sleeps   393 

The    Sleep    That    Flits    on 

Baby's   Eyes    393 

Compel  Them  to  Come  In  394 

Mair,   Charles    19 

The    Last    Bison    21 

From  'Tecumseh'    26 

Tecumseh  to  General  Har- 
rison      29 


PAGE 

Enter    General    Brock    and 

Lef  roy     30 

Marshall,   William   E.    .  399 

Brookficld    401 

McArthur,  Peter  295 

Corn-Planting     297 

To  the  Birds   297 

An  Indian  Wind  Song 298 

Sugar  Weather   299 

The    End   of   the    Drought  300 

The  Stone  301 

McCollum,  Alma  Frances  289 
Where     Sings    the    Whip- 

poorwill    291 

The  Angel's  Kiss 291 

The   Silent  Singer    292 

Love    292 

The  Angel  of  the  Sombre 

Cowl    292 

Little  Nellie's  Pa   293 

McCully,   Laura   E.    .  .  .  421 

Our  Little   Sister    423 

The    Troubadour's    Lyre . .  423 
Canoe  Song  at  Twilight .  .  424 
A   Ballad  of  the  Lakes    . .  424 
Mary     Magdalene     Solilo- 
quizes   (On  Love)    427 

Mclnnes,  Tom  247 

The  Damozel  of  Doom ...  249 

Illumined     250 

Underground    253 

Merrill  Helen  M 259 

Bluebirds   261 

Sandpipers     261 

When   the   Gulls   Come    In  262 

In   Arcadie    263 

A    Hill    Song    264 

MicUlleton,  J.  Edgar.  ..  459 

The    Colonial     460 

Off    Heligoland    461 

Hell's    Half    Acre    462 


470 


Index 


PAGE 

Montgomery,  L.  M.  ...  353 
When     the     Dark     Comes 

Down    355 

Sunrise  Along  Shore    ....  355 

Off  to  the  Fishing  Ground  356 

The  Old  Man's  Grave   ...  357 

The  Old  Home  Calls   ....  358 

Norwood,  Robert 331 

His  Lady  of  the  Sonnets.     333 
Dives    in    Torment    336 

O'Hag-an,  Thomas 213 

An  Idyl  of  the  Farm   ....  215 

The  Old  Brindle  Cow  ....  216 

The  Dance  at  McDougall's  217 
The     Song     My     Mother 

Sings   218 

Ripened   Fruit    219 

The  Bugle  Call  219 

The  Chrism  of  Kings  ....  220 

Osborne,  Marian 341 

Love's    Enchantment     ....  342 

Love's  Gifts   343 

Love's    Anguish    343 

Despair    344 

If   I    Were   Fair    344 

The   Song  of  Israfel    ....  345 

Pickthall,  Marjorie  L.  C.  305 

The  Lamp  of   Pooi;  Souls  307 

The    Pool    307 

The   Shepherd   Boy    308 

The    Bridegroom    of    Cana  309 

A   Mother  in   Egypt    311 

Redpath,  Beatrice  437 

Earth    Love    438 

To  One  Lying  Dead    ....  439 

Rebellion    440 

The  Daughter  of  Jairus  . .  442 

My   Thoughts    442 

Roberts,  Charles  G.  D.  .  47 

The  Solitary  Woodsman   .  49 

Kinship     50 

The  Succour  of  Gluscap   .  52 


PAGR 

Two  Spheres  53 

Earth's   Complines    54 

Introductory   55 

The    Flight    of    the    Geese  55 

The    Furrow    56 

The  Sower   56 

The   Mowing    57 

Where  the  Cattle  Come  to 

Drink    57 

The  Pumpkins  in  the  Corn  58 
A     Nocturne     of     Conse- 
cration      58 

Roberts,  Lloyd 429 

The   Fruit-Rancher    431 

Miss   Pixie    431 

England's  Fields  432 

Husbands  Over   Seas   ....  433 

The    Winter    Harvest     ...  434 

Come  Quietly,  Britain 434 

Roberts,  Theo.  Goodridge  377 

The  Maid   378 

The  Blind  Sailor   379 

Private    North    380 

The  Lost  Shipmate 381 

The  Reckoning 382 

Sangster,  Charles   9 

Sonnet    10 

Lyric  to  the  Isles  11 

The  Soldiers  of  the  Plough  12 

Harvest   Hymn    13 

The   Rapid    14 

The  Wine  of  Song  15 

Brock    16 

The  Plains  of  Abraham  . .  17 

Scott,  Frederick  George  75 

The  Feud    77 

Samson     7S 

Dawn    80 

The  River  81 

The  Storm   82 

In  the  Winter  Woods   ...  83 

The  Unnamed  Lake 84 

The  Burden  of  Time   ....  85 


Index 


471 


PAGE 

Scott,  Duncan  Campbell  133 

At  the  Cedars   135 

The  Forgers  137 

The  Voice  and  the  Dusk..  138 

The  Sea  by  the  Wood   ...  139 

The  Wood  by  the  Sea   ...  140 

The  Builder   141 

The  Half-Breed  Girl    ....  142 
From  'Lines  in  Memory  of 

Edmund  Morris'    143 

Service,  Robert  W 359 

The  Call  of  the  Wild 361 

The  Law  of  the  Yukon  . .  362 
The     Cremation     of     Sam 

McGee    365 

The  Lure  of  Little  Voices  369 

Little  Moccasins   370 

Sheard.  Virna 451 

The    Slumber   Angel 452 

Dreams     453 

In    Solitude    454 

The    Daisy    454 

The  Lily  Pond    455 

The    Harp    455 

The   Lonely   Road    456 

From   'In   Egypt'    457 

From    'The    Temple"     ....  458 

Smythe.  Albert  E.  S.  . .  347 

The  Way  of  the  Master..  349 

November   Sunshine    350 

By  Wave  and  War   350 

Anastasis    351 

The  Trysting  Path 352 

Stringier.  i\rthur   313 

The  Lure  o'  Life  315 

At  the  Comedy   316 

The  Old  Garden   316 

Destiny   319 

The  Keeper  320 

The    Seekers    320 

War     320 

Morning     in     the     North- 
West    321 

From  'Sappho  in  Leucadia'  31Z 

The  Final  Lesson   32Z 


PAf.F. 

Sullivan,  Alan   281 

Suppliant    283 

Prospice   283 

The  Kite   284 

Came     Those     Who     Saw 

and   Loved   Her    285 

Brebeuf  and  Lalemant...  286 

Thomson,  Edward  \Vm.  157 

Thundercloud's  Lament    . .  159 

The  Mandan  Priest  161 

The     Canadian     Rossig^nol 

(In   May)    163 

The     Canadian     Rossignol 

(/■«  June)    164 

From   'Peter  Ottawa'    166 

Watson.  Albert  D 227 

Dream-Valley  229 

From    'Love    and    the    Uni- 
verse'    229 

Breeze  and  Billow 23<) 

The  Comet   231 

The  Sacrament    232 

The  Lily   232 

God  and  Man    233 

A    Prayer    233 

From  'The  Hills  of  Life'.  234 

Cromwell   235 

Usury    236 

Wetherald,  Ethelvvvn   . .  167 

The  House  of  the  frees  . .  169 

The  Screech-Owl    169 

My  Orders    170 

If  One  Might  Live   170 

Legacies   171 

The  Hay  Field   171 

The    Followers    172 

The  Wind  of  Death   172 

The   Indigo   Bird    173 

At  Waking   174 

The  Song  Sparrow's  Nest  174 

Earth's  Silences  175 

Mother  and  Child  175 

Prodigal  Yet    176 

Pluck     176 


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